


Arcanum Paterfamilias

by whipsndozers



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipsndozers/pseuds/whipsndozers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years after the ‘Promised Day’, secrets better kept buried come to the surface. Against a backdrop of political tension, a family fights to keep from being torn apart by one man’s dark past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zhirush Nakakoar

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Both 'Fullmetal Alchemist' and 'Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood' are produced by Funimation. Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu, Square Enix and Funimation. All Rights Reserved
> 
> Special Thanks: To "evil_little_dog" and "alchemyotaku75" for the beta, and "dzioo" for the [awesome artwork!](http://dzioo.livejournal.com/77116.html) (Lookie! Lookie! Lookie!)  
> and--  
> Thank You To: "havocmangawip" and Sgt. Jody Sunday (ret) for their patience and wonderful technical advice on paraplegia and blindness, respectively.
> 
> Written for the 2010/2011 FMA Big Bang Challenge

1930  
The caravan master was a long-limbed, bearded Bharati with a scimitar slung across his back and a gentle, grandfatherly face. The crinkles around his dark eyes deepened as he gazed down at the youngest member of the caravan. Settling beside the campfire and helping himself to the tea steeping in the dented pot, Vasupati spoke to the youngster in heavily-accented Amestrian, “So... in a few days we will reach Golden Xerxes.”

“Golden Xerxes?” Ten-year-old Theo, lounging comfortably against his father’s side, shot the caravan master a quizzical look. “It’s just a city built on top of an old ruin.”

The older man exchanged a glance with the boy’s father, then shook his head. “Xerxes is far more than that, yuvmitra.”

“You mean there’s a Bharati story about it?” Theo’s face lit up in eager anticipation.

Amandipa, just eighteen and Vasupati’s nephew, tuned his hurdy-gurdy on the far side of the fire, his grin brilliant against his dark skin. Several of the drovers had brought instruments along, and entertained the caravan nightly. They’d sing about their travels, often making up the lyrics on the spot, and play softly as Vasupati would tell his stories to Theo, setting an exotic backdrop to the ancient tales.

“Of course.” The caravan master took a sip of his tea, then unslung his scimitar and laid it on the blanket in front of him. “Ask me properly, and I will tell it to you,” Vasupati said to Theo.

“Mudji bahteo hrepaya ehkakahni,” Theo recited carefully.

“You are getting better, young friend,” Vasupati told the boy in the same language. He shifted back into Amestrian. “Here is how my father told the story to me and his grandfather told it to him...” he began.

…One thousand and one hundred years ago, the Empire of Xerxes ruled the cold grasslands of the north, the river valleys of the west, and the great deep deserts where the caravans rode. "The Great Jewel of the Desert" was the center of the world and all roads led to the city of gold atop a great hill. The domes that capped the Imperial Palace gleamed bright in the desert sun, and their glittering beckoned caravans laden with exotic and precious goods. Silk and spices, indigo and saffron from the empires to the east. Wool and barley, fine leather and rich tapestries from the countries to the west. Ivory and precious gems, cotton and linen from the dark continent to the south. Wheat and furs, silver and gold from the kingdoms to the north. Anything that grew or was made anywhere in the world could be found in the bustling markets that circled the Imperial City of Xerxes.

Beneath the golden domes of the palace was a great library, and scholars came from far and wide to unravel the mysteries written on those ancient scrolls. The palace was a temple, but not to any deity. No god resided in the city of gold; for the people of Golden Xerxes believed they were masters not just of all the nations but of the wind and the water and all the things that are the powers of the gods. So when the scholars of that city discovered that the powers of creation and destruction ran as rivers beneath their feet, they set out to learn how the power flowed, and how to bend it to their wills. They made circles and lines on the ground. They painted circles and lines on their walls, and the wisest among them built mighty walls in a day, and dug wells to fill fountains for a thousand horses in a night...

Miles away to the west and to the south, another caravan made camp for the night. Most of the men huddled against their settled camels, peering uneasily into the dark beyond the flickering light of the fire.

“Bijan, you will take the first watch,” Nuru said. He plucked the spitted snake off the forks holding it above the flames, then used his left hand to cut off a piece.

“Kito, keep the watch with me,” Bijan said to his neighbor in a taut voice raised high by fear.

“I watched last night,” Kito objected, “and tomorrow we be will riding a long way.”

“If the ghosts of the desert come for you, it will hardly matter whether Kito or the Queen herself watches with you,” Nuru said. He went on in a matter of fact tone...

…For one thousand and one hundred years, Xerxes ruled the desert. No army dared approach its walls; no general rode the roads without paying the passage toll to the rulers of the Golden City. Four towers around the palace rose far above the golden domes. The army of Xerxes wielded swords of many-folded steel, and the officers could, with a touch, make the earth swallow up a thousand men and their horses.

Then came an Emperor possessed of greed and envy, lust and gluttony, pride and sloth and wrath. He needed nothing, but wanted what no man can have -- immortality. He emptied the coffers of gold and gems, sold the spices and silk, traded his finest horses and cattle in a search for the Great Elixir that would buy his freedom from the death that God has decreed for all things. His alchemists worked day and night, but their labors fell ever short as the Emperor grew old and stooped.

Then when the Emperor felt dry cold death creeping into his bones, a creature created from the blood of a slave and given life by alchemy offered the knowledge the Emperor sought. Fearing the darkness that creeps ever closer, the Emperor followed the instructions of the thing made not by God but by men. He sent his people, old and young, man and woman alike, to dig a trench around the whole of the great city. Then the thing made by men demanded lives and souls, and the Emperor so feared death that he sent his army to carve crests of blood in each village. When there was wailing in every town, and blood soaking into the dust of every street, the Emperor, death shrouding him with the closing shadows, pierced his finger. His old, weak, and frightened blood spilled into a pot at the center of the world, setting alight the great circle the thing made by man said would grant him freedom from fear.

The Great Jewel of the Desert cracked and shattered, and in a single night, all the glory of Xerxes, all the people who walked its blood-soaked streets, all the animals that brought riches from all the lands in the world, even the fruit trees in the palace garden, were all swept aside by a great light...

“Alchemy can’t do that, though,” Theo objected. “There must have been something left.”

“The power of alchemy is dangerous in the wrong hands, and it kills when a man tries to step into the realm of the gods,” Vasupati said gravely. “Remember that, my boy, it’s the first lesson of Xerxes.” He took another mouthful of tea, and continued the story...

…For one thousand and one hundred years, the desert ruled Xerxes. The sand in the wind scoured the murals and friezes of their brilliant colors. The walls of the mansions crumbled. The golden domes fell down onto the grand libraries and the strongrooms of the Emperor’s palace. Only the watch towers stood, guarding the dead husk of greatness. No traders' shouts echoed within the city. No ghosts walked its promenades and alleys. No creature found shelter there, and no plant set roots among the crumbling stones. Only the whispering of the sand in the wind disturbed the silence of fallen Xerxes...

“There were no ghosts in the city because they had all gone to walk the roads leading to the fallen palaces,” Nuru went on. “Some of them strode around the giant trench, waiting for whatever might fall into their hands and hungry jaws. Some stood guard over the treasures and tore out the souls of any who came close.”

“There was one golden man left,” Kito ventured.

“So it’s said,” Nuru answered darkly. “So it’s said. The men of the East swear there was a man with golden eyes among them, for a while. It’s said he might be the Emperor; that the thing made by men rather than the gods actually told the truth, and the death of Xerxes led to the eternal life of just one of the golden men of the golden city.”

“But no one knows where he is, or when he’ll come back,” Kito finished.

“Only that when he does, he’ll claim power over the whole world,” Nuru said. “But in the meantime, the red-eyed jackals and other foreigners have stripped and then rebuilt his city to suit themselves...”

…With time, the deepest stain fades away. So it was in fallen Xerxes. The wind that brought the sand to scour away the bloodstains now brought seeds that settled in the dust. The wind next brought rain, and the seeds grew into vines and brush and trees. Soon, the small creatures followed: the scorpion and the spider, the mouse and the rabbit, the lizard and the snake. They were followed by the bird and the goat and the lion. And after the goat and the lion came men. They saw that Xerxes was no longer a silent tomb, but a place where vines grew and animals grazed. The whispered stories of the golden city that fell in a single night brought men who wanted to see the great towers, and men who wanted the fabled Jewel of the Desert...

Men went into the ruins of Golden Xerxes, and took what they could. They stripped the collapsed domes of their tarnished gold, and they carried away the gems set within the remaining walls and murals. Some of them quarreled over their treasures, and there was again fresh blood in the streets of Xerxes. So the Great Jewel of the Desert lost the last of her tattered glory. The dead city was again left to the wind and the sand.

By and by, tribes marked by their god with eyes the color of the desert sunset were driven from their lands. Some sought refuge within the dead city...

“The Ishvarun,” Theo said solemnly. “Because the military wanted to lock them all up.”

“Indeed. They fled to Xerxes because the king of Amestris sent his armies to kill the red-eyed people.” Vasupati exchanged another look with the boy’s father, and received a curt nod. The trader bobbed his head a little, and went on...

…The red-eyed people set stone on stone, and dug the sand out of the wells, so water flowed once again. At first, there were only a few of them, herding their goats among the ruined houses, but word spread among the tribes of the refuge of Xerxes, where there were good deep wells, stones ready to hand for building, and no soldiers to insult their women and frighten their children. They went to Xerxes, and they set to work in building a place they could claim as home. Houses strong against the wind rose from the rubble, and the shouts of children echoed off the sun-baked clay. Gardens and orchards and fields of grain flourished beside pipes of clay that carried water from the good deep wells to the fields. Chickens and goats and oxen grew fat and healthy. Voices sang to the god of the sunset throughout the promenades and alleys as the domes were cleansed and blessed and erected upon the old palace. The white domes sparkled like pearls and the palace became a temple not to the wisdom of men but to the wisdom of God. God resided in this city, and she smiled upon her children.

Watchmen stood on the towers again, and mirrors were hung from the turrets in the day, and fires were lit at night to become a beacon for weary travelers...

“...and a warning to those riding across the desert.” Nuru watched the camel drovers while he drank lefthanded. “Those fighting priests are as savage as hyenas, but they are only men. The city has not forgotten her dead, and she sends them to tear out the souls of those daring to cross her land without paying her respect.”

A loud snort ended the narrative. A powerfully-built figure dressed in better-quality robes, followed by a copper-coated horse, strode into the firelight. “A stupid story, told by fools to other fools to pass the time and fill empty heads. There are no ghosts on this or any other road, only shadows turned into demons by the imaginations of idiots. Stop flapping your tongues and go to sleep.”

...“The caravans again bring silk and spices, ivory and precious gems, silver and gold. Baptized in sweat and blessed with prayer, The Great Jewel of the Desert has been reborn, and she rises to a new greatness.”  
”

“There have been men on the watchtowers for almost ten years now,” Vasupati said in satisfaction. He finished his tea. “That is the end of the story for now, my boy. The rest is yet to be written.”

“Someone was exaggerating all that stuff about people with blond hair and yellow eyes being anything special,” Theo frowned. “That’s just how someone’s born. And there’s no such thing as living forever or ghosts.”

“There is more than one kind of ghost, yuvmitra,” Vasupati said. He looked over his cup into the watchful golden eyes of the boy’s father, and murmured, “Some better hidden than others.”

1910  
“What’s the problem here?”

The truck’s driver looked up, his eyes widening a little above a mustache that probably would have looked mournful even if he hadn’t been staring into the steaming innards of a broken down truck. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll get her out of your way.” He hurried to the tailgate of the truck and took a set of keys from his belt. “Won’t take more’n a few minutes.” He lowered the tailgate. “All right, everyone down! We’re going to get this heap over on the side!” There were scuffing sounds, then a rattle.

Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang paused as the first of the truck’s occupants dropped to her feet, then reached up to accept a toddler from an older woman. The girl turned to look at Roy. Her face tightened, then went entirely expressionless. She carried the child to the side of the road and waited while more people, most of them children or elderly, climbed down from the truck’s canvas-covered bed.

“You know, if your nerves buzz any louder, I’m going to start thinking you’re a beehive.” Major Maes Hughes, Investigations agent and Roy’s friend since the Academy, glided up beside him. His face and body appeared relaxed and even a little bored, but his wrists were just slightly cocked, pressed up against the springs that would launch a throwing knife into each hand with a single twitch. Another presence settled silently on Roy’s other side. His adjunct, Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, stood at ease, but her hand rested lightly on the butt of her pistol.

“Why aren’t there any soldiers guarding them?”

“A few kids and old women?” Hughes shook his head. “The troops are busy chasing down the guerrillas both here and in Ishbal.”

The driver jumped down from the truck bed, holding one end of a thick chain. This he hooked to the truck’s heavy frame, then yanked. “Come on. Line up against the bumper.”

"Busy or not, there should be armed guards watching them," Roy said tightly as he watched the last of the prisoners climb down.

They were manacled hand and foot, linked by the chain that ran between their wrists. They were tall, their complexions a deep red-brown, and their eyes red. The only sound they made was the rattle of the chain as they set their shoulders and bound hands against the truck, and heaved until it started to move.

Hughes tensed, and springs twanged softly. One of the prisoners looked up at the sound, his brows tightening down in a mass of pale scar tissue marring his face from forehead to cheeks.

The well-worn truck inched into the grass beside the road. “Keep an eye on them,” Mustang murmured softly to his aide, as it came to a stop. “Hughes.” He moved around the front of the truck, surveyed the open hood, then climbed onto the bumper. He reached toward the engine compartment, hissed, and wisely didn’t touch the scalding-hot motor. “Steam burst,” he said briskly to his companion as he jumped down. “Just a minute.”

The driver came to the front. “You should be able to get by now, sir--what--what are you doing?” He stared at the precise arcs and measured lines Mustang was scratching into the packed dirt with a stone.

“Major Hughes here knows something about engine repair. I’m going to cool the engine off so he can take a look.” Mustang scrutinized the array, then settled to his knees beside it and took a deep breath. “Stand back.”

The driver hurried to the far side of the road, watching open-mouthed as bright light erupted from the scratched lines, then flowed up and into the truck. Near the tailgate, the women tucked their children closer to their bodies. The chained men glanced at each other, then crouched and heaved, straining with set faces.

Hughes yelled in alarm as the truck’s front tire touched the rim of the array. Hawkeye’s voice snapped, “Ye’en!” Mustang jumped out of the path of the rolling truck, watching as it turned and dragged its Ishbalan captives down into the drainage ditch beside the road. He paused, then took a pair of embroidered gloves from his pocket and slowly tugged each of them on.

“That wasn’t very smart,” he commented. “You didn’t really think you could run me over with a broken-down truck, did you? Now the truck’s in the ditch on top of being broken down, and all of you are soaking in water that ran off a cow pasture. Worse, you’re annoying me. Really,” he strode closer to look at the prisoners sitting in the ditch, “I expected something better from Ishbalan warrior priests.”

One of the men spat in the Ishbalan street tongue, then fell silent as another of the dark-skinned men clamped a hand around his forearm.

“I’m fairly sure that wasn’t a compliment or a request for negotiation,” Mustang said coolly. He crouched again and sketched another array into the dirt. “Good thing I’m in a good mood today, otherwise I’d leave you to sit there until someone who didn’t have work to do happened by.” He activated the array, then watched in apparent calm as a tongue of earth rose from under the truck. It lifted it well clear of the ditch, dragging the first three of the chained men into the air, before settling the truck back onto the side of the road.

“You-- you’re one of the State Alchemists, aren’t you?” The truck driver looked like he was trying to decide whether to run screaming or simply faint.

“Now there’s a brilliant deduction,” Hughes drawled.

“See what’s wrong with the engine, Hughes.” Mustang put a hand in his pocket, and pulled out a silver watch on a chain. He held it up in front of the staring driver. “Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist.”

Behind the truck’s bumper, the scarred face of one of the captives contorted into a silent snarl.  
~`~`~`~  
“You shouldn’t have set the array in front of the truck, Sir.” Hawkeye glanced in the rearview mirror at the men in the backseat of the car. “Not with warrior priests among the captives.”

"I really didn’t think they’d waste the effort to try running me over,” Mustang answered crossly. “Besides, the energy was easier to balance down the length of the frame.”

“I don’t think they thought they could run you over, Sir,” Hawkeye told him, unfazed. “I think they were trying to disrupt the array and kill you with the rebound.”

“What?” Hughes turned to look at his friend, who scowled. “Roy, would that have worked?”

“It was just a heat-dissipation array. It might have knocked me down for a day or two, nothing worse.” Mustang shot a glare into the rearview mirror. “I do know how to handle a runaway transmutation, Lieutenant. And given the Ishbalan proscription against alchemy, I doubt they know about rebound.”

“Sir, with all due respect, they made it their business to know how our forces worked and what our weaknesses were. I doubt they've forgotten what they learned about State Alchemists."

“I have to back the Lieutenant up on this one, Roy,” Hughes said. “Those fighting priests--”

“I remember, Hughes,” Mustang cut him off. “I made a mistake. It won’t happen again. Discussion over. We have more pressing business.” He picked up a thin manila folder from the seat between himself and Hughes and opened it across his lap.

The contents of the folder were the same as they had been when first delivered to Mustang with a curt note from his commanding officer. Some photographs, a scrap of paper with an address, a neatly typed, single paged dossier and five wrinkled envelopes addressed in a smudged, childish scrawl. He’d read the letters several times already, scrutinizing them with a professional eye, but neither he nor Hughes had found anything to suggest they weren’t exactly what they seemed to be. All of them were addressed to people Military Investigations considered "potential assets", "security risks", or both. Every letter bore the same message: sons begging for help in finding their father... who happened to be the biggest fish ever to have escaped the Investigations hook.

“I had a field agent visit Resembool and check the records,” Hughes said quietly, staring out the window. “The kids are real. Thing is, they're recorded as Edward and Alphonse Elric."

"Are we sure the kids are his, then?"

"Everyone in town is sure they are. Apparently the boys inherited their father's gold eyes."

"So Hohenheim was trying to hide his family."

"Looks like it. And it worked." Hughes picked up one of the letters. "Until those boys lost their mother and started looking for their father."

“So we’re using a man’s ten and eleven year-old sons to try and track him down, so the military can do... what, exactly, Maes?” With a soft sigh, Roy gazed out the window but didn't really pay any attention to the scenery rolling past.

Hughes took the file and set it on his lap, shuffling through the photographs. “I don’t know any more than you do, Roy. 'That's need-to-know, Major, and you don't need to know.' But it says something about how much they want Hohenheim that they've sent a State Alchemist, a military investigator, and sniper after him."

“That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”

“With us as the butts.” Hughes nodded at the photograph he set on the top of the stack; a black and white surveillance shot of a middle aged man in an open-air market. He appeared to be purchasing live chickens. "You haven't seen him since her funeral, have you?"

Roy pulled his attention from the passing scenery and arched a brow at the man sitting beside him in the backseat of the car. Major Hughes gazed back at him, and looked like he was about to throw his arms around Roy in a bone-crushing hug. "Your sympathy is misplaced, Maes," Roy said coolly. “Rachel was a classmate. I’d never even met her father until after she died."

The compassion in Maes’ expression was spoiled by the knowing twitch of his lips.

Roy turned back to the window, but not before letting his best friend see the irritated roll of his eyes. "Rachel was a brilliant alchemist. She was a colleague. Nothing more."

Hughes closed the file, and handed it back to Roy. "I wouldn't call six months of ‘study dates’ and a proposal of marriage 'nothing', Roy."

"It wasn't six months, we were studying, and we were both drunk that night," Roy said as he laid the file back on the seat between them.

“Are you ever going to admit you loved her?”

“Are you ever going to give up on that tired old joke?” Roy glanced down and tapped the file. “He’s required reading. Braun’s Alchemical Principles of Biology, Braun’s Practicum, Braun’s Compiled Medical Alchemy.”

“Those are some pretty good paperweights and doorstops.” Hughes shifted in his seat. “Weird guy, though. Practically a hermit, and obsessed with breeding chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“You mean your girlfriend didn’t say anything about them?” Maes grinned at him. “He has all these chickens in weird colors, and he tried to sue for damages when his neighbors’ dogs barked all night; claimed it made the hens lay eggs with deformed chicks.”

“Not much to do in Investigations these days?”

“It’s one of the perks of the job. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff in the locked archives.”

“So is there some deep dark secret I should know before I go asking the renowned Reinhardt Braun nosy questions?”

“Like the trained dogs he keeps around to eat nosy young military pups?”

“Very funny.”

“You don’t really think he’s going to tell you anything you don’t already know, do you?”

"I'm following a lead, Maes."

"Do you really think he could... would tell us where Hohenheim is?"

Roy shook his head. "I'm not holding my breath. This is as likely to be a dead-end as any of the others." He sighed and graced Hughes with a half-smile as he reclined back against the seat with his fingers laced behind his head. "But I go where my superiors tell me to. At least for now."

Some time later, the car came to a stop and Second Lieutenant Hawkeye twisted in her seat. "We're here, Sir."

Roy murmured his thanks and waved her off before she could get out of the car and open the door for him. "Not this time, Lieutenant. I don't want him on the defensive before he even opens the door. You and Hughes will remain with the car while I question Mr. Braun." As Roy let himself out, he caught his adjunct and best friend clamping down on protests. He strolled up to the front door of the three-story gingerbread house with his left hand in his pants pocket: his overcoat pulled back enough from his hip to let the silver chain from his State-issued pocket watch glisten in the sunlight. At the same time, his fingers hooked the pair of gloves folded up and nestled next to the watch; just in case. It appeared all very casual and unconcerned on the surface, but Roy Mustang was a man who did not like surprises. Braun might be a harmless eccentric, but he was still an alchemist with no love for the State military, and an affinity that military wanted to make use of.

He hesitated with his hand raised to rap his knuckles on the door. A gramophone played within the house, the needle skipping and scratching over the record. Roy waited a moment, but when no one silenced the skipping record, he stepped back from the door and pulled his gloves from his pocket. He didn't bother to glance over his shoulder. Both Hawkeye and Hughes would be out of the car the instant they glimpsed the white fabric emerging from his pocket.

Hawkeye slipped between Roy and the door and Hughes took a position next to him. The second lieutenant cautiously tested the knob, then nudged the door open with the barrel of her sidearm. A search of the lower floor between the front door and the library revealed nothing out of place, except for the stuck record on the gramophone. Hughes lifted the needle and switched the player off. “Lakmé.” He glanced at Roy and quirked a brow. "Wasn't that her fav--".

“We're here to talk to Braun,” Roy said. "Not discuss his choice of music." At his nod, the three of them began a sweep of the house. They started on the main floor, and except for the light layer of dust covering the formal dining and living rooms, it looked as if the owner of the home had stepped out and would be back at any moment.

When they reached the second floor, Hawkeye opened the first door at the head of the stairs. Roy glanced into the room and his eyes narrowed. He took a step onto the thick carpet, running a finger along the frame of one of the pictures crowding the desk. The photos were all of a girl with deep copper hair and dancing green eyes, first as a child in a sundress and woven hat, growing gradually from picture to picture into a young woman sitting in a chair in the library with a book on her lap, absorbed in her reading. No dust stirred at Mustang's touch. The stuffed toys on the mint-green bedspread looked clean and new, and the bookcase, tightly packed with girlish romance novels and textbooks and crowned with mismatched knick-knacks, gleamed in the light filtering through the ruffled curtains.

Hawkeye checked the closet, which was neatly hung with the clothing of most of a childhood. “It looks as if he never really let go.”

"I always thought the people who talked about this kind of thing were exaggerating, but they were right. It's so perfect it makes your hair stand on end." Hughes examined the child’s barrettes collected in a bowl on the dressing table, shaking his head.

Roy turned on his heel. “We still have the rest of the house to search, people.”

Hughes closed the bedroom door with a soft click behind them, shuddering a little before returning to the sweep.

They explored the other bedrooms, finding the owner's rumpled and untidy, the bed unmade and the floor cluttered with notebooks and discarded clothing. The attic offered only dusty relics of two or three generations of weddings, children, schooling, work, and death. The officers returned to the first floor and entered the kitchen. There was one place left.

Roy glared at the cellar door with his jaw clenched.

1913  
He rose from the cold depths of the river and sloshed up the cobbled bank, the rain sluicing over him and the limp body in his arms. Lightning flashed, highlighting the wrinkles of the woman’s face and hiding her eyes in deep pits of shadow. The river was rising; there was no shelter to be had beneath the bridge. He laid her on the cobbles and cradled her head in his left hand. The lightning warred with the streetlamps on the bridge above. The stones underneath her glistened black with her draining life. There was a strengthening wail of sirens; someone must have heard the shriek of tires and crash of steel on steel and called for help.

Icy torrents of rain streamed into his eyes and drove the chill of his sodden clothing deep into his bones. He reached under her soaked coat, found the source of the blood, and knew she was beyond human aid. She stirred, her hand closing around his wrist in a grip tight enough to rob him of what little feeling the cold had left in his fingers.

Behind him, the river bubbled and splashed as the woman's auto finally gave up the last of its air and sank beneath the surface.

She shivered from the cold and the blood loss, but there was nothing he could do to warm her. His jacket was saturated and he was shivering himself. All he could do was lean over her and block some of the rain.

The sirens faded. They weren't coming to her aid after all. He listened a moment and judged their direction, guessing where they were headed. Time was growing short.

Motion caught his attention and he glanced up. Lightning illuminated the broken rails the woman's automobile had crashed through before tumbling into the river. Only a pair of stray dogs peering over the side. Anyone sane would be indoors where it was warm and dry.

Brief daylight, and in that moment, he saw her clearly: her blue eyes lucid and wide. She coughed wetly, splattering his chest with blood. "You're... Ishvarun?"

So she had seen more than he'd thought in the lightning. He hesitated: a long-standing habit. "Yes."

A sound, bitter and thick, emanated from her. She was laughing. "Beautiful irony," she wheezed.

"You should save your strength."

The hand that had his right in a death-grip released its hold and reached up to cup his cheek. "I'm dying." she said. "I can't feel your hand anymore."

"Help is coming."

"I know your god--" She stopped short as she gagged.

He risked further injuring her as he rolled her gently to the side and held her face as she retched. When she was done, he gently rolled her back.

"I remember your face,” she said. “Give me ahmurt kuvar, yevarshedaht"

His shivering gave way to a stronger shudder for a moment.

"I'm dying, Ishvarun," she whispered.

He brushed drenched, silver strands from a weathered face. "May I know your name?"

She said nothing, and he didn't ask a second time. She could deny him her soul; Ishvarra would recognize and welcome her whether he named her in her passing or not. Not that there would be many Amestrians who would be at Her feet.

"...Isobel. Dur-- Durham."

He quaked as the cold took over; his right hand palsied as he laid it on her forehead. "Merciful God, Ishvarra." He used her language, but the right name of God. She would not have a chance to foul the Name with an unbeliever's casual curses.

"Yishvarra, Zhevat vorna Zhivot" The words were hoarse and mangled by an Amestrian accent, but they were the temple tongue, the words that began the prayers of his people. She tried to go on, but her voice faded into a soundless twitching of lips.

For a moment the cold gave way to wonder. "Estvarya", he responded softly, as he stroked her forehead. "Yishvarra,” he began again, this time in his own language, “hear these words not from my profane mouth but from this woman's wise soul." His hand stopped trembling and grew warm as a red light glowed from beneath the sleeve of his jacket. Red, the light and warmth of the sun rising over the desert, red and warm as the blood that ran in the veins of Ishvarra's chosen servants, the red reflected in their eyes. "[Takest Thou this woman, who wast born a foreigner among foreigners according to Your plan. Takest her into Thy womb and let her be reborn among the wisest of the prophets and the sages, and let her be known as one of Thy true children until the end of time.]" Her soul was already slipping free of the ruined body. She was not as brittle as the child had been, but still, his strength could shatter her.

Alchemists deserved no better, but she was an emissary of God. He pried the tendrils of her soul from the anchor with care, feeling it coil and wrap around his brother's arm, following the dark tattooed lines that glowed with the light of the desert sun. Life sought life. A surge of energy sparked up his right arm, tiny embers singing the fine hairs and tickling his skin.

She gasped, almost covering the soft sound of something going 'pop', then she stopped shivering. A gentle word whispered through his soul. "Hatemzher."

He brushed her eyes closed, then pulled her soaked and matted fur coat closed around her. He could have left her where she lay, but even the bodies of the dead deserved respect as creations of God. Joints cracking and protesting, he rose with her in his arms. He took her to the nearby grassy berm, and laid her in the semi-dry shelter of a spreading tree near the sidewalk, where someone would find her in the morning and see to it her family could bury her.

He climbed to the road, hearing distant shouts echo off the tall buildings surrounding him. The alchemist and his daughter -- that pathetic, malformed chimera -- had been found, then. He had attempted to be gentle with the child, as he had with the wise woman. The child was an innocent, welcome in Ishvarra's arms, like all children. But the soul of the child and the dog had been sloppily entangled, and their hold on their twisted, pain-filled body fragile at best. He'd meant to give both child and animal a gentle, painless release, but his anger... his anger on their behalf, had made their end brutal, though mercifully quick. Still, he hadn't sent them whole to Ishvarra. Their souls had crumbled and dissipated like ashes on a breeze.

He hadn't been gentle with the alchemist. The man who chose alchemy over the sacred trust of fatherhood. An alchemist who went beyond the profane. God's rage had flooded through the scarred apostate and pulverized the alchemist's soul, scattering it widely in the dust beside the river of the heavens. The river's flow would not carry the alchemist back to the Valleys of God.

1914  
The car was ten blocks behind them, outside a tavern that had excellent food, but a shady reputation. The path they took wound through a maze of dank alleys littered with every sort of garbage imaginable; refuse both human and non-human. They reached the gate to Doctor Knox's rear courtyard, and Colonel Roy Mustang grasped the gate latch. He froze when he felt Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye tense next to him and reach around her back.

She remained still and silent for a long moment, her dark eyes peering into the depths of the shadows and scanning along the roof-lines. She finally relaxed and left her handgun in the waistband of her slacks. "Sorry, sir."

Roy tugged on the beaded string that would lift the inside latch to the gate. "No reason to apologize, Lieutenant." He pushed the gate open, and waved her through. "We're all a little jumpy."

There was a distinct metallic click, and Roy brought a gloved hand up, fingers poised on the striking pads. At the same time, Riza whipped her pistol out and aimed it at the source of the sound.

"You two had better not try to transfer into covert operations, you know that?" said a gruff voice from the shadows. Doctor Knox stepped into the square of yellow light coming from the kitchen window, lighting the cigarette clamped between his lips. He drew in a lungful of smoke, making the ember at the end grow bright, then tucked the lighter back into his pocket.

Roy lowered his gloved hand. "Why am I here on such short notice?"

"Rachel," Knox answered.

Roy's face tightened. "What about her?"

"Her family had her transferred to a different hospital." Knox puffed a little on his cigarette and lifted an eyebrow.

"Bastard." Roy pushed a fist into his forehead. "Monstrous, manipulating bastard."

Hawkeye and Knox exchanged a glance.

Mustang took a deep breath, and when he looked up again his expression was utterly smooth and unreadable. "I could use a cup of coffee, Doctor."  
~`~`~`~  
A hooded figure watched the doctor and his guests climb the porch and enter the house. The cat-footed shadow flitted from the shelter of a chimney, down a rickety fire escape, and into a narrow alley filled with garbage. It stalked the doctor's garden gate, face hidden by the hood, then put a single dark hand on the fence and swung over it, landing among wilted but thorn-equipped rose bushes. It made a single sharp hissing noise, then crept toward the house, hiding in the lengthening shadow of the fence.  
~`~`~`~  
"So the Fuhrer's holding your people hostage, huh?"

"It's an effective way to shorten my leash without stripping me of my rank. This way, I'm still potentially useful." Mustang swirled the last of his second cup of coffee around the bottom of the cup, then drank it down.

"And Rachel's another link in the dog's collar. I see."

Alphonse Elric clanked in from the living room, where he'd been keeping vigil over the tiny Xingese girl he'd befriended. "Excuse me, Sir? Who's Rachel?"

Mustang turned his gaze toward the massive suit of armor. "Have you ever heard of an alchemist named Reinhardt Braun?"

“He wrote some books about medical alchemy. Brother and I researched everything he published,” Alphonse answered promptly. “He died in some kind of accident a few years ago. I don't remember much about it, though."

The Colonel nodded. "It happened just before I first met you two. Hughes and I did most of the investigation into his death.”

"So who is Rachel?" Alphonse asked patiently.

Mustang's lips pressed together. "She's the innocent victim we found in the wreckage. She'd been living at a private hospital... until recently."

"If you could call that livin'," Knox disparaged. "Nothin' but a ragdoll, if you ask me." He glared hard at Roy. "You might've done her a favor if you'd've snapped your fingers at her."

"You know why I couldn't."

"Yeah, and now it's come back to bite you in the ass."

"Colonel?" Alphonse turned from the doctor to the alchemist. "You're leaving a lot of things out."

"Doctor Knox told me that Rachel's family had her transferred." Mustang's eyes glittered. "Which isn't possible, because I'm the closest thing she has to family."

1930  
The sun sank over Xerxes as the children climbed over the broken walls just outside the Blue Flowers Quarter.

Ten year-old Aiyim braced himself atop a pile of rubble and pointed down into a valley of fallen masonry. "See? It's right there. My da says it's important to his research, which means it's something about how the Old City was destroyed."

Jinjing, who had just turned eleven, scrambled up beside him, then said dubiously, "It's just part of an old carving. It's not even painted."

"That means it's not just art, it's alchemy." Aiyim pronounced the foreign word with care and relish. "The Old People were destroyed by alchemy, and that might tell us how it happened, once Da and his team finish digging it up."

"We already know how the Old City died," Jesu, who was also ten, pointed out. "The people tried to make themselves immortal and God sent the Angel of Death to take them. Then She sent an earthquake to destroy the whole city so everyone who saw it would know not to use Her power for selfishness." His voice took on the rise and fall of a temple teacher, and he folded his arms.

"I don't think that's how it happened." Aiyim looked at the weathered lines carved into the half-buried stone wall, then started picking his way down toward it, testing each step before putting his full weight on it. "It doesn't make any sense."

"That's how it happened," Jesu insisted. "The texts say it."

"If everyone in the city died, then whoever wrote the texts must not have been in the city when it happened," Aiyim said reasonably. "So that person didn't see any plague. He was probably just guessing."

"I thought it was the Scar who destroyed the city," Ramiyel, just seven years old, wobbled on top of the rubble, then scrambled for better footing.

"Don't be stupid, the Old City fell thousands of years before the Scar was even born." Izyan, one of Jesu’s eight year-old brothers, scowled at the smaller boy.

"Don't call my brother stupid," Ramiyel’s older brother, ten year-old Nazar, flared.

"The Scar wouldn't have done this," Jinjing put in. "He didn't tear down whole cities, he hunted alchemists."

"Not always," Nazar argued. "He destroyed Bazul chasing the alchemist who created him."

"It's called Baschool, and it's still on the maps of Amestris," Aiyim told him. "So he didn't destroy all of it or kill everyone in it. It got rebuilt, just like we're rebuilding Xerxes."

"My Uncle Broz saw him kill some soldiers," Ramiyel put in. "He said the Scar had eyes like a wild animal and he could kill someone just by touching him. He could make lightning strike anywhere he wanted it to." He shivered a little.

"The Scar's dead, drenya," Nazar said firmly. "He died when he killed the alchemist who made him."

"My mom says most of the stories about the Scar aren't really true," Jinjing commented. "She says he wasn't made by alchemy and he didn't really drink the blood of the people he killed."

"Uncle Broz says the Scar's not dead," Ramiyel answered. "He says the Scar came back to Ishvar, and he walks around at night looking for people trying to break the Laws." He moved closer to his brother.

"Uncle Broz just says that to scare you," Nazar told him, patting his brother's back. "So you won't think about skipping Temple or stealing from the market."

"It doesn't matter," Jinjing shrugged. "He'd be really old by now even if he was still alive."

“There you are!” An older girl hopped over a bit of broken wall and stalked toward the group, bearing down on them with a thunderous expression. “Can’t you pay attention to the sun for once? I’ve had to do all the kitchen chores and run to the market, then look all over the city for you.”

“That’s not true, Naomi,” Jesu told her. “You get Kezhiya to do most of the work so you can sneak off to play with the horses.”

“That’s useful,” the girl retorted. “I’m helping with the training.”

“You should move into the stables with the horses,” Diyari, Izyan's twin, said, “since you smell like one.”

“And only a horse would marry you anyway,” Izyan snickered.

Thirteen year-old Naomi leapt down onto a crumbling pile of clay bricks with her fist raised at her brothers. “Take that back, or I’ll pound you!”

Both Izyan and Diyari deftly hurdled out of her reach, laughing when she tottered and pinwheeled her arms to keep her balance. The girl jumped to the side and landed on a steadier pile, but instead of giving chase, she smirked. “That’s okay. I’ll just tell Papa I caught you snooping around inside that old palace yesterday. He just got home and he’s talking to Momma.”

Both boys’ eyes went wide, then they scrambled over broken stone and fallen walls and darted back toward home. Jesu and Naomi waved to the other kids still gathered in the ruins and took their time climbing up to the road. They strolled toward home in companionable silence for a little ways, then Jesu said, “Is Papa back already? I thought he was going to be in Ishvar for another week.”

Naomi glanced over at her brother and her lips pulled down in a worried frown. "Papa's mad about something. I think he was in a fight; his hand is bandaged. He and Mama went into the bedroom to talk."

“Why does he have to keep going south at all?” Jesu asked petulantly. “Every time the people in Ishvar get into a fight with the Amestrians, he gets on a horse and rides there as fast as he can. He’s a yevarshedaht of Xerxes, not Ishvar.”

“He’s Ishvarun, and so are we, and so are they,” Naomi answered. “Besides, he grew up in the south.”

“So did Makhu, but he doesn’t ride south every time there’s a fight in Ishvar,” Jesu scowled.

“Makhu grew up in Aerugo,” Naomi said. “That’s different. And he went to Amestris with Papa once.”

Jesu scuffed his toes along the uneven stones of the ruined street, gazing down and fingering the orange and green striped sash tied in the simple knot of a nksun. "I guess now would be a bad time to tell Papa that I failed my tests. Again."

Naomi ruffled her brother's hair in sympathy. “He knows you’re trying. And you’ll pass, someday.”

Jesu didn't answer. Instead, he kicked a stone along the road, then chased it down, kicking it again. After the third time, he stopped and waited for his sister to catch up. "Swai, what if I never pass?" He gazed down at his sash again. "Everyone says I'm supposed to become a yevarshedaht like Papa, but..." He looked up at his sister, his eyes pained. "What if-- what if--" He sniffled and swallowed and ducked his head.

Naomi shrugged. "I don't know." Mischief tugged her lips into a grin. "Maybe Papa will send the Scar after you."

Jesu's head shot up, his eyes wide, then he scowled. "That's not funny, Naomi."

The older girl leaned in and taunted, "Why? Are you afraid?"

"No..."

Naomi's grin grew wide. "You are! You're afraid of the Scar!"

"Am not!" Jesu protested.

Naomi skipped around him, her hands behind her back. "Are too!" Jesu made to shove her, but she skipped back out of his reach. "Jesu's afraid of the Scar!" she teased, and ran off.

The younger boy chased after her. "Get back here, so I can pound you, Naomi!"


	2. Deagdizh

She was winning. Her nose was bleeding and her ribs throbbed, but she'd landed a good kick to Ewan's knee and ducked his answering swing. She savored the fear on his face as she closed in, pulling her arm back for one more good punch-- then a much stronger hand closed around her forearm and yanked her aside.

Papa.

"Go home," he ordered the knot of boys who'd gathered around to watch the fight. They scattered like mice.

"He insulted Momma," Naomi protested as her father turned to Ewan. "He said she--"

"Your mother needs no defense against the thoughtless words of children." Papa's tone ended the argument. To Ewan, he said only, "Tell your uncle I said you have too much idle time and too little sense to put it to good use." He finally let go of his daughter's arm as Ewan backed away, then turned and ran for home.

Papa crouched on one knee and took Naomi's chin in his bandaged left hand. He ran the rough pad of one thumb over her bruised cheek, then sighed and took his sand mask from his belt. He put it to her bloody nose. "Are you hurt beyond this?"

"I'm fine, Papa." Naomi took the thin cloth and dabbed her nose. "I was winning."

"You were fighting without thought or purpose," her father answered.

"He called Momma a dirty sivar!" The word was enough to cause the faint tightening around Papa's eyes that warned of his anger, and Naomi pressed her advantage. "He said--"

"Does calling your mother a demon make her one?" Papa stood up and took her right hand in his left.

"No, but--"

"Ewan repeated his grandmother's words. She is a resentful old woman using a boy to strike at those she blames for her troubles." Papa's face relaxed, and he released Naomi's hand in favor of hugging her to his side, against the scabbard of his falcata, the sword that was both a weapon and a symbol of his calling. "Her petty insults are worth neither your bruises nor your anger, minya."

Naomi shrugged out from under her father's arm. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Papa. I can take care of myself. And I'm not going to let anyone insult Momma, whether it's Ewan or his grandmother or the Elders themselves!" She turned away from him to stomp off.

"Naomi."

Papa’s voice stayed calm and low, but it stopped her all the same. She turned around to see him bend to pick up a bright blue cube enameled with branches and pink blossoms and colorful birds: the empty tin Naomi had been taking to the tea merchant before she'd been sidetracked by Ewan's insult.

"Even when your anger is justified, look past this moment to the horizon," Papa said, as he tossed the tin to her.

The tea tin had barely landed in Naomi’s hands when a voice called, “Mishyael!”

Papa turned toward the speaker.

“Welcome home, sovar,” the other man said. He bore the family and tribal marks of the southern tribes on his arms, much like Papa’s, but they were difficult to see against his dark skin. Makhu took Papa’s offered forearms in greeting. The beads on the ends of his waist-length braids clicked as he touched his forehead to Papa's.

“Makhu, my brother,” Papa answered courteously.

“The words sting my tongue, but the Elders have said you are to go to the temple. They have come to a decision.” Makhu nodded at Naomi, then leaned in and spoke to Papa too softly for her to hear. The tightness of Papa’s face and the twitch of muscle in his jaw told Naomi that whatever Makhu had told him wasn’t good news.

Papa nodded, then turned his attention back to Naomi. "There are three fountains between here and the market. I suggest you make use of one of them before you face your mother again."

Naomi sketched a quick bow and darted off.

The market had been a few tents among the ruins when she was born. It, like Naomi and the rest of Xerxes, had grown, new buildings sprouting among tents and blankets spread on ancient broken streets. Now it was an entire district of shops and tents and carts, jammed together without plan, with pens for animals down the hill from the rest of the market. Xerxes had been a trading city in ancient times, and it was becoming one again. Traders and merchants from as far away as Caledonia and Xing bustled through the twisting alleys between tents and temporary stalls. It was the sort of place anyone could get lost in, since it changed almost daily. Most of the denizens of Xerxes' market district could tell you how to find whatever it was you were looking for, but Papa and the other yevarshedaht walked the market day and night to make sure that people kept to the business of buying and selling.

Naomi twisted and trotted through the narrow paths between stalls and sale blankets, past the sweet smells coming from the traveler's inns and the stronger scents wafting from the tent of a Bharati incense trader, and climbed two stone steps into the shade of Shifa's patched, wooden awning.

The tea merchant had chosen her location well. It was early in the afternoon, and the small tables under the awning were surrounded by customers chatting over tea served in Shifa’s funny handleless Xingese teacups. Naomi's people said, "No one dislikes the tea woman," and in Shifa's case it was entirely true. Naomi grinned at the short, plump woman behind the counter as she set the empty tin on the spotless dark wood.

"Here for the emissary's tea, Naomi?" Shifa beamed at the girl. An instant later, her expression became concerned. “Oh dear. Did you get thrown from a horse? Or did you get into a fight?”

Naomi frowned and her gaze darted to the side. “Ewan insulted Momma.”

“And you got caught, didn’t you?” Shifa said, gently. “Only God sees more than the yevarshedaht.” she quoted with a smile, and turned to the jars arrayed on shelves behind her counter. It had been two years since the emissary and his wife had last visited Xerxes, but Shifa flipped open her big customer book and set about mixing the Amestrian’s preferred blend with expert skill.

Naomi grabbed a honey stick from the jar on the counter and stuck it in her mouth. She sniffled as the strong flavor of cinnamon bloomed through her mouth and nose, and grinned. It was a private game. The honey sticks looked the same but were all flavored differently, and finding a cinnamon one was a sign that she was going to be lucky today.

"My brother sent a message with the day's rider. The fighting has stopped, but his house is rubble and three of his horses are dead," a young woman at one of the tables under the awning said to her companion.

Naomi all but forgot the honey stick melting in her mouth. Someone had killed horses.

“My nephew sent word asking me for money to buy goats.” the older woman at the table answered. She shook her head, and the red glass beads woven through her white hair rattled against each other. “He escaped the fighting and set up a tent in the desert.” She slurped her tea, then added, “Yasha said our yevarshedaht fought like it was old times.”

Shifa turned back to the counter and set the tin in front of Naomi. “Are you ready for your kevarkal?”

Naomi frowned and slumped, her chin resting on the counter, the events of far away Ishvar forgotten. “I’m ready for it to be over. Everyone keeps asking me if I’m ready, or if I’m scared, or if my dress is finished.” She scowled. “Momma talks about it like it’s more important than the train station.” The honey stick wobbled and bobbed in her mouth as she spoke. “It’s just a Crossing ceremony, not a king’s coronation.”

Shifa smiled and brushed a lock of hair from Naomi’s eyes. Hair that was still stubbornly child-dark, when even Nadira, who was a year younger, had a finger’s-width of white roots.

“It’s important to a mother to see her little girl growing up,” Shifa told her.

“What’s so important about a Crossing ceremony?” Naomi demanded. “The Elders ask questions about things everyone already knows and then I say my name, as if no one knows who I am, and I... and I have to pretend to be drowning in the temple river in a dress.”

“You know it’s more than that, silly girl.”

Naomi scowled. “I don’t see why I have to do all that just to prove I’m not a child anymore.”

“You could tell your parents you want to wait another year.”

“No! Then I’d...” Naomi trailed off. “I don’t want to wait another year.”

Shifa chuckled softly. “Because you’d have to keep going to morning Temple and practicing your brush script and reciting the texts?” She smiled as Naomi’s cheeks heated. “Did you think that was a secret? Jinjing has two more years but she can hardly wait for her kevarkal, so she can spend her time learning how to build automail.”

Tumaz, who sold oxen down the hill, bounded up the steps and only stopped when he hit the table between the young woman and the older one with the clacking beads. His face was flushed and his eyes wide, and he was grinning. “Anadil, did you hear the news? The Scar has returned to Ishvar to avenge us and chase the Amestri--" He broke off as Shifa snorted and slapped her customer book shut with a loud snap.

"When will those fools in the south open their books again? The war is long over, and all this talk of vengeance is just idle noise.” She turned to Naomi and nodded at her. "You had better get that tea back to your mother, before the emissary arrives."

"I'm going! I'm going!" Naomi huffed. She grabbed another honey stick and hopped down the steps. The words came back to her as she made her way through the twisting and turning pathways "...our yevarshedaht fought like it was old times...” “The Scar has returned to Ishvar...” She snorted and shook her head. Momma’s voice spoke in her memory. “Rumor runs faster than truth because it’s made of nothing but fanciful exaggerations.” The story of the Scar was just that, an exaggerated story told to little kids to make them behave. There might have been a real person who killed alchemists, in the old days, but the demon-hero the little kids were so afraid of wasn't real.

What was real was Ewan's insult. Naomi had every intention of finishing what she’d started teaching him. She just needed to figure out how to do it without Papa interfering.  
~`~`~`~  
Mishyael strode through one of the maze of corridors that spidered out from the central chamber of the temple. He passed an open door leading to one of the practice yards, stopped, and backtracked. On one end of the yard was a thicket of poles of various heights and diameters, crisscrossed by catwalks and ropes. Four ungwaiyar sparred on and around the posts and ran along beams inclined at different angles. Their practice sticks rapidly clacked against each other in every direction.

The other side of the courtyard was flat. Twelve little boys, including his twin sons, Izyan and Diyari, were doing their exercises, all stomping and shouting in unison. Makhu strolled down the line, like a general inspecting his troops. He stopped in front of one small nksun and ordered, “Baju.” The entire line stopped and went into a ready stance, sticks angled in front of lunging young bodies.

Makhu settled down on his knees and spoke softly to the little nksun. He took the boy’s hands, guiding them. “Move this hand higher, to protect your throat and your face. This hand will turn the strike and give you space to kick.” He let go of the child’s arms and moved back, offering his own muscled forearm. “Now-- step forward, strike and kick. Slowly.” He caught the boy’s foot on one arm and the stick’s strike on the opposite shoulder. “Good. Again.” He repeated the exercise twice more, then got to his feet and set all of the boys to starting the pattern again, counting the rhythm for them as they worked through the exacting, balanced turns, thrusts, and kicks.

Makhu glanced up and saw Mishyael. “Keep to the pattern,” he said to the boys, as he strode toward the doorway. “When you reach the end, start over.”

“I thought this was Kashif’s class,” Mishyael said when the younger man reached him.

“Asya’s in labor,” Makhu said. “So he’s making himself useful by pacing the floor and wringing his hands. What was the verdict?”

“Half of them wanted to strip me of my falcata, the other half wanted to put me down in the records as a hero,” Mishyael said ruefully.

Makhu scowled in confusion. “There are three elders, how can the vote be split down the middle?”

“Hamzhya couldn’t make up his mind.” Mishyael sighed. “They decided to make me walk the Sinner’s Path.”

“That’s not too bad.”

“The whole path. On my knees.”

“Oh,” Makhu said, flat.

Mishyael gazed back along the corridor, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it’s largely for appearances. I’m not to let it interfere with my other duties.”

Makhu grinned. “Well then, Old Man, before you find time to do your penance, want to help me show these little knee-kickers what a real yevarshedaht can do?”

“If you won’t be embarrassed by this old man putting you in your place.”

Makhu snorted and jerked his head toward the center of the yard. “Baju!” he ordered again, “Clear the field.” The boys came to a stop and scrambled to the end of the yard, hopping up on the low garden walls and jockeying for the best spots. As Mishyael followed the younger yevarshedaht, he cast a sideways glance at Diyari and Izyan. Diyari elbowed his twin brother, and both boys were grinning widely.

The rapid clacking on the other side of the yard came to a halt, and the four ungwaiyar jumped down from their perches and trotted to the wall to join the nksun.

Makhu went to the sheltered rack of weapons tucked against the wall of the practice yard, and selected a staff nearly his own height in length. Then he turned to Mishyael with a challenging grin. “What will it be, doddering old man?”

“Since these boys are learning the long stick, I’ll demonstrate how effective it can be in experienced hands,” Mishyael responded mildly.

Makhu’s grin widened. "I'm not sure this'll be a fair fight," he said. "Not with that injured hand of yours."

Mishyael glanced down at his bandaged left hand and flexed it stiffly. "True." He met Makhu's gaze with a raised brow. "I could have one of your ungwaiyar tie it behind my back so you would have an even chance."

Makhu chuckled and tossed his fellow yevarshedaht and friend another long stick. Mishyael caught it... then caught Makhu’s first blow and turned it away from his midriff. Makhu paused, and spoke to the children now watching with wide, eager eyes from the tops of the walls. “Did you see that? He had to move his arms to block my strike. Where is he unguarded?”

“You could hit his ribs on the right,” one boy piped up, “if you move fast enough.”

“If he was fast enough,” Mishyael commented. He stepped back and into a spin that aimed the stick at Makhu’s head and one heel at the younger man’s side. “Unfortunately, all that extra height and reach he’s so fond of means that it takes far too long for his thoughts to reach his hands.”

“I’m fast enough to get out of your reach, Ancient One,” Makhu teased as he dropped nearly flat.

The twins giggled and drummed their heels against the stone wall. “Do a face strike, Papa!” Izyan called.

“I can hardly do that when you’ve told him what my next move will be.” Mishyael stepped over Makhu’s snatch at his ankle, then took one long stride and swung the stick toward Makhu’s shoulder blades as the other yevarshedaht bounced up. Makhu stayed low and swung his legs around, catching Mishyael’s stick and twisting it almost out of his hands. Mishyael grunted, and followed the motion into an airborne cartwheel that set him down with his stick just barely deflected by Makhu’s.

“Baju,” another voice interrupted. Both yevarshedaht froze as though trapped in amber.

Abrahn, the master yevarshedaht was a sturdy, though elderly, bald man with a thick mustache. He approached with a calm stride. “All very well to show off for children,” he went on. “Something else again to prove yourselves to one who knows a thing or two.” He took hold of Makhu’s left wrist and pulled it back a fraction. “Carrying your sword in this hand is an advantage, but beware of relying on it too much. The blade doesn’t care which shoulder wears the sash.” He surveyed Mishyael, and frowned. “I taught you better than to pinch your elbows in like that.” He tugged at the offending arms until they satisfied him, then stood back. “The rule is no bloodshed. Begin.”

The senior yevarshedaht swept into motion, their sticks blurring and sashes flying as they leapt and thrust, swept and spun. The boys on the walls cheered and gasped as Makhu escaped a broken jaw with a back handspring that rotated in midair and brought him back to his feet with his stick moving to catch Mishyael under one arm and flip him forward. Mishyael gave to the pressure, rolled over his shoulder, then stayed crouched close to the stone floor of the courtyard and twisted Makhu’s feet out from under him. Abrahn watched with a calm, weighing gaze as the two men wrestled. Makhu finally got one foot against Mishyael’s chest, and kicked him away -- and back to his feet. Makhu came up in a whirl of beaded braids and age-darkened wood, drove his stick down toward Mishyael’s groin, then ducked and flipped his head at the other yevarshedaht’s stick as it came back for the return stroke. With his opponent’s weapon caught in his braids, Makhu grinned and wrapped his arm around Mishyael’s stick. “You’re getting predictable, Old Man.” He flexed his shoulder and arm, and tossed Mishyael’s stick away across the stones.

Mishyael snorted, and grabbed Makhu’s stick. “Your vanity will be the end of you someday.” He hooked the end of the stick with one foot and twisted, forcing Makhu to let go before being flipped over the older man’s knee.

“Baju.” Abrahn kicked under Mishyael’s fallen stick, bringing it into his hands. “That’s enough practice on the flat. Draw swords and up on the beams. Makhu to the narrow high, Mishyael to the angled low. The rule is the same.”

The younger boys haggled over the best vantage points near the posts while the older ungwaiyar held hurried negotiations of bets on which of the yevarshedaht would force the other to the ground first. Makhu lifted an eyebrow at Mishyael as he wrapped the training guards into place around the edges of his sword. Mishyael slid his eyes toward the children clustered on the wall, and one side of his mouth turned up a little.

With both swords safely wrapped, the seniors took their places, Makhu standing higher than the outer walls of the temple compound, Mishyael only waist height off the ground. Abrahn chose a seat, and settled his hands on his knees. “Begin.”

Makhu stepped along the slender beam, then reached one long leg and took a ready stance, his sword laid neatly back along his left arm. Mishyael sized up his opponent, then jumped and swung one-handed up to a higher perch, his sword closing on Makhu’s legs before he’d landed firmly on a platform less than the length of his own feet. Makhu flipped aside, dancing lightly among the poles until he hung upside down in midair, the passage of his sword forcing Mishyael to arch backward and balance precariously on one hand for a breathless moment before twisting down to get a foot on the pole to jump to one of the high beams.

The boys on the walls watched with bated breath and shining eyes as first one, then the other of the seniors seemed to snatch the advantage. The betting reached a fever pitch--

\--then there were two pained grunts as both men hit the ground: Mishyael reflexively tumbling into a somersault and Makhu catching himself on both hands.

Master Abrahn stood perfectly balanced and completely unruffled atop the slender center post. He held up his belt knife, then tucked it back into its sheath. “Remember this, children,” he said, including the two seniors in his gaze. “The enemy you see is less dangerous than the one you overlook.” He held up his other hand, and everyone in the courtyard sucked in a breath... then the ncksun giggled.

In the warrior master’s hand was one of Makhu’s braids, complete with its beads, and six inches of Mishyael’s ponytail.  
~`~`~`~  
Naomi barged through her front door. Momma startled, then her bright green eyes filled with dismay as she took stock of her daughter's battered and bruised face. "Oh, Naomi," she sighed. "You've been fighting again."

"But--" Her defense was interrupted by the wailing of her infant sister, Zhevah, in the other room.

Momma jerked her head toward the kitchen as she glided past to tend to the fussy baby. "Put the tea in the basket, then go clean up."

Naomi paused at the kitchen doorway and gazed back through the hall to the parlour, where Momma wove her cloth and Kezhiya made dresses. The cradle Papa had built for Naomi stood beside the loom, where it was easy for Momma to watch the baby. She lifted Zhevah and rubbed her pale, speckled cheek against the infant's darker one, humming softly. Within a moment the cries became whimpers, then quieted altogether as a pudgy hand batted at the shell at the end of a string of fresh water pearls Momma wore woven through her thick copper braid.

Naomi's eyes started to sting. Momma was a good woman, better than most. She had known where to look for Madeya and how to soothe her fears the morning of her wedding day. Momma knew at least as much about babies as Daima, the district midwife, and she helped with the washing -- and made Naomi help, too -- every time there was a new baby among the neighbors. Momma raised the herbs to soothe Ewan's grandmother’s gout, and now the spiteful old crone was calling her a sivar!

Momma glanced up, and her expression softened. "Why so glum, minya?" she asked. "Could it really be as bad as all that?"

"I'm sorry, Momma," Naomi murmured, then spun and darted into the kitchen, nearly bowling over Kezhiya, Momma's helper and adopted older sister to Naomi and her four siblings.

"Look out, Kezhi!" Naomi squeaked as she narrowly dodged the open oven door.

"You look out," the sixteen year-old teased as she gracefully pirouetted around Naomi, then slid a loaf of steaming bread from the paddle onto the the baking counter near the hearth. "I was here first."

"I wasn't staying anyway," Naomi grumbled. She reached for one of the baskets sitting on the long kitchen table. Several bottles of the family's wines, enough to serve Naomi's family three or four times over, waited beside the baskets of fruits and vegetables from their garden, as well as dried herbs and exotic spices from the market. Fresh breads and good cheese sat on the glittering marble counter Papa had salvaged before Naomi was born.

The back door was open to let the breezes through, but the screen was closed. Naomi jumped when it banged open and an Amestrian with yellow hair and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth wheeled himself over the wide threshold with a grunt. "Damned pony tried bite me," he complained in a thick accent, then spotted Naomi and brightened. "Day’s blessing, Naomi." He almost pronounced it correctly.

"Blessings of the day, Mehstar Havoc," she replied with a grin. She'd always liked Jean Havoc, the emissary's assistant. He told stories about his family that were just a little too outrageous to be true, and he had taught her how to call someone mouse-brained in Amestrian.

He scowled, though not seriously. “Haven’t I said it’s just ‘Jean’?” He snatched a roll from the basket on the counter, and laid a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell your mother.”

Momma came in, carrying Zhevah. "In my house, children are expected to show respect to adults. You’re an opportunity to practice being polite." Her tone and expression took the sting out of her words, but Jean Havoc ducked his head in deference to her.

“The custom here is little girls say ‘Zhoji Jean,’ right?” He took a bite out of the roll, and rolled his blue eyes toward the ceiling in mock ecstasy. “You make the best bread in Xerxes.”

Naomi tossed the tea in the basket of produce, then darted across the kitchen to snoop through another basket as soon as Kezhiya had turned her back to tend the oven and Momma reached for a cup to offer water to Jean. She sifted through date rolls, barley bread, dark rye, and muffins laced with fruit and cinnamon, trying not to make enough noise to alert the adults and Kezhiya.

Jean caught her eye and grinned when Naomi put her finger to her lips.

“And you set a terrible example for children,” Momma told him tartly. She shot a glance over her shoulder. “Naomi, shouldn’t you be getting cleaned up?”

Naomi jumped back from the basket as if it burned. “Yes, Momma.”

“Your wife must think she has five children instead of four,” Momma said to Jean as she handed him his cup. She put Zhevah in the baby swing hanging from the ceiling by the table, and gave it a gentle push to set it rocking.

“She has no doubt I’m a man,” Jean answered. He added something in Amestrian, his eyes dancing with mischief, and Momma gasped, then chuckled and replied in the same language, giving the emissary’s man a light swat on his thickly-muscled shoulder.

Naomi crept back to the basket and rearranged the rolls while Momma was paying attention to Jean and Kezhiya was wrapping the still-warm loaves on the counter in cloth.

“Behave yourself, or you’ll be buying your bread in the market,” Momma added in the common tongue.

He grinned, then jerked his thumb toward the door. “The crew cleaned most of the consulate up, but the vandals did more damage to the kitchen than we first thought. We need to send for a repairman from Amestris to fix the ovens. I’ll talk to the emissary; tell him you need more help.”

Momma waved him off. "Whether I cook the meal here or there doesn't matter. It's the people who sit together to eat it."

Jean looked around at all the food that was already prepared. "I don't know how you did all this."

"I was doing this before your people insisted on installing those gas-burning ovens." She shook her head. "I like my method. The food tastes better."

Naomi found the almond cookies hidden in a tin at the very bottom of the basket, like a priceless treasure someone had buried to keep it from being stolen. But, like any other buried treasure, it was just begging to be found and taken.

Jean grabbed a basket from the sideboard and set it in his lap. He said something teasing in Amestrian, and winked at Momma.

“Sorry, Jean, but if ‘stepping’ into the twentieth century means using those infernal gas ovens, I’ll pass,” Momma replied with a snort. She then turned him around and pointed him at the door. "Shoo! Before the pony gets tired of waiting and wanders off to find something to eat, and takes the emissary's dinner with her."

Jean laughed, but obeyed, letting the door swing shut behind him with a bang.

Kezhiya turned away from the stove, then spotted Naomi pilfering. She lunged to slap the lid down on the cookie tin, barely missing Naomi's fingers, but the younger girl not only avoided a pinch, she came away with the prize as well. "You'd better put that back, Naomi."

Instead, Naomi licked the cookie, then grinned triumphantly.

Kezhiya grimaced and groaned softly. "You're so disgusting. No man is going to want you to wife. Better to lie down in a filthy stable than next to you. At least there would be good reason for the stench."

“Horses don’t smell as bad as sweaty men, and they don’t think they can buy you as a wife for a few kerchiefs and some stupid poems.”

“Kezhi, Naomi, that was childish,” Momma scolded. “I hope you two intend to show better manners to the emissary and his household at dinner.”

Both girls snapped straight. Kezhiya bowed respectfully, and mumbled an apology. Naomi said. “Forgive me, Momma. I'll behave as an adult, tonight. I promise.”

Momma nodded once, curtly. “See that you do.”

Behind her, Zhevah began to whimper, and Momma turned to tend to her. Kezhiya stuck her tongue out at Naomi. The younger girl crossed her eyes, sticking her thumbs in her ears and waggling her fingers, making Kezhiya cover her mouth to smother a giggle. Naomi grinned, then shoved the cookie into her mouth, and turned to run upstairs.

“Bathe first,” Momma called. “And put on your long skirt before you go with Zhoji Jean to watch the train come in.”

Naomi rolled her eyes, and trudged toward the bath-house.  
~`~`~`~  
The Amestrians came by train. It wasn't an ordinary work-camp train. The squat, soot-blackened locomotives that dragged rails, ties, and ramshackle living quarters and cafeteria cars for the building crews had been chuffing past the city walls for years. Even the horses and dogs ignored them. The train that glided through the switch and up the new spur to the still-undedicated Xerxes station was as different from the camp trains as a golden stallion was from a peddler's donkey. The sleek passenger engine and its cars were all painted in dark blue with a pair of red stripes running down their sides. Two Amestrian flags fluttered from holders set on either side of the locomotive's nose. The train slowed as it approached the platform, like a young woman sashaying past her admirers in a new dress. The locomotive let out a deep hissing sigh like a live thing, and came to a gentle halt.

Naomi hung back as Jean Havoc wheeled up next to Papa. She knew she was staring like a little girl, but couldn't quite collect enough self-control to match her father's calm acceptance of the train and the passengers climbing down from it. There were so many Amestrians, and they were all talking animatedly in their language, many of them running up and hugging other varisti who made Xerxes home, and some of them even being welcomed by Ishvarun. The crowd was swelling, and Naomi would have never seen the emissary and his wife disembarking, if it hadn’t been for the respectful path that opened ahead of them as they glided toward Papa.

She knew the Amestrian emissary, of course. He'd brought his wife (and in the past, his daughters, but Naomi scanned the crowd and didn't see them this time) and come to eat with Naomi's family at least once every time he'd come to Xerxes. As a child, she'd been afraid of him, with the blank gray spaces where his eyes should have been and his strange accent when he offered formal courtesies to Momma and Papa. There were a few streaks of silver in his black hair now -- and now she knew that Roy Mustang was only a blind foreigner with a foreigner's thick accent. He was a man, for all he spoke for his country.

Two of the emissary’s aides debarked from the train, each of them filling the narrow space of the compartment's opening. They nodded in greeting to Papa and Zhoji Jean, then took over unloading their baggage from the station's porters. The big men still scared Naomi a little, but Darius and Heinkel had never been anything but polite to Papa and his family.

“[Roy Mustang, son of Amestris. Be welcome among us, thee and thine,]” Papa said as he strode up to the emissary. It was properly phrased and delivered without any hesitation or slipping of the tongue around the difficult ancient sounds. Papa made the temple tongue sound elegant and important, instead of dried-out and crumbling.

Roy Mustang turned toward Papa, and offered his hands, palms up. “Mayyuu bles-t been for hoztalody.”

Naomi suppressed a wince. Her teacher, Mahala, would accuse a student of drunkenness for such sloppy pronunciation. Still, at least Roy Mustang tried to say the formal greetings. Most varisti learned enough of the common tongue to make themselves understood, but didn't even attempt to learn the temple tongue.

Papa accepted the greeting with a slight inclination of his chin, placed his hands on the emissary's in a sign of peace, then shifted into the common tongue. “There is a place ready for you, with tea and a good meal prepared.”

“Thank you. Perhaps you will sit down and eat with us?” The Amestrian was much better with the common tongue. He knew good manners, too.

“You honor me. I will eat with you.” Papa turned, and spotted Naomi. His face lightened just a fraction. “Naomi, my daughter, come and walk with us.”

She couldn't help the grin, but she did manage to keep herself to a dignified walk rather than running to her father's side. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she bowed respectfully to the emissary and his wife. “God’s ruth,” she greeted them.

“God’s ruth, Naomi,” Riza Mustang said in return. “You’ve grown so tall since I saw you last.”

Roy Mustang reached toward Naomi, then paused. “May I?”

Naomi understood what he was requesting and stepped into his reach. His hand found the top of her head, and he smiled. “Taking after your father, I see,” he teased. He cupped her face and his brow furrowed a moment, then his lips twitched. “After all this time, you and your mother...” He trailed off and stroked Naomi’s cheek with one thumb, and said in a much different tone, “You and your mother surprised me the day you were born, and you continue to surprise me.” His empty eyes came unnervingly close to meeting hers. “You’re going to be a beautiful woman.”

“Are you still playing that game, Roy Mustang?” There was an edge under the lightness of Papa’s tone.

“There’s no harm in pointing out the obvious, is there?” The emissary tucked a piece of Naomi’s hair back behind her ear. “How am I supposed to maintain my legendary charm otherwise?”

Papa whuffed. “Practice charming your wife. She might at least challenge you.”

Riza responded, deadpan, “I’m immune.”

The emissary immediately looked tragic and spread his hands. “You see? She’s so harsh and cold. What man wouldn’t go looking for a sweet young girl to laugh at his jokes and lead him to dinner?” He fumbled in the air in front of him with theatrical dismay. “Naomi? Won’t you be a kind girl and lead a blind old man home?”

Naomi hesitated. There was a private joke going on over her head, and none of the adults seemed inclined to explain it to her. Fortunately, Jean cleared his throat. He spoke to the emissary in Amestrian in a businesslike tone. The emissary listened, then nodded, and took his wife’s arm. “Let’s go to the consulate, where we can discuss recent events over what I know will be a wonderful meal. Shall we?”

Papa and Naomi strode along beside the Amestrians, the emissary's head held high. He tucked his wife's hand in his left elbow and rested his right on hers. The emissary almost appeared to be leading her, rather than the other way around. Naomi relaxed and beamed at the people lining the streets. This arrival was important and she was part of it. There were even some Xingese people in embroidered robes watching the procession.

The emissary leaned toward Papa a little, and spoke to him in Amestrian. It was a slurred tumble of sound. Naomi picked out the varisti words for “fight” and “leader”... then the one Amestrian word that every child knew. “Scar.”

Naomi searched the Amestrian’s face, then looked up at her father, and felt like there was a bird fluttering in her chest. Roy Mustang’s closed expression gave no hint of his thoughts, and Papa-- Papa looked angry about something.

“Treason!” A voice rang out, loud and angry over the hubbub. Someone came storming out of the smithy. Biyal, old Manahem's apprentice, wearing his leather apron and carrying his hammer, strode right up to Papa and addressed him in the temple tongue. It was an insult to both Papa and the foreigners, to scold the yevarshedat in the holy language in front of guests Biyal thought didn't understand the ancient words. “[Why thee, warrior of the People, walkst with an enemy of us?]” His grammar and pronunciation weren't even close to Papa's. “We were told by the prophet Avidan--” he continued on in the temple tongue, ”[Say to the king thou has defeated ‘Pitch the tents and tie the horses in the valley below mine gates,’ for the foreigners thou defeateth hath be deaf to God and will seek to strike thee down and make slaves of the people.]”

”[God hath spoken and commanded, 'Therefore I will make of thee priests to all men and all women.’]” Papa tucked Naomi closer against his side and went on, his voice deep and thunderous as one of the old-time prophets speaking with the voice of God. ”[‘When those who are deaf come among thee, speak fair to them, and deal with them as thou would deal with thine own brothers and sisters.']”

“You show too much mercy and patience for a warrior of God!” Biyal snapped. ”Have the charms of your foreign wife so clouded your eyes that you can’t see the mark his kind--” he stabbed his hammer toward Roy Mustang, who frowned “--left across your face?” Biyal crowded up close. ”Did the sivar give you a potion, to besot you with her and her dust-born chil--” he stopped with a gasp as Papa moved, so fast he was on the ground with Papa's arm under his chin and his hammer kicked far away before Naomi could open her mouth to answer the insult.

“Do not insult my wife and children,” Papa growled.

“Yes,” Biyal croaked. “[Arise, warrior of God, and defend thy people!]”

Papa snarled, and took hold of the smith's shirt, tugging him close as he came up to his knees.

Naomi found herself backing away -- right into the Amestrian emissary's wife. She looked up reflexively, and her mouth went dry. Riza Mustang held a gun in both hands, her expression set and calm. Next to her, Jean Havoc also held a gun, his cigarette clamped between his lips and his eyes hard and strangely dull in his usually cheerful face. Behind them, the emissary's aides were also pointing guns at Biyal, and Naomi's stomach flip-flopped. Their stony expressions and the slight curl of Heinkel's lips made Naomi think of the great golden lions of Aerugo.

"Put away your gloves, Roy Mustang," Papa said, his voice frighteningly hard and level. Naomi shot a confused glance from Papa to the emissary, who was tugging on a pair of white gloves, his face coldly alert.

Papa's eyes never left Biyal's as he spoke to the smith. “You speak of things that came and went while you were a fat toddler clinging to your mother's skirts, and you have learned nothing since. You try to claim a grudge that was never yours, and demand that I be the instrument of your stolen revenge. I deny you my burdens, and I say you are a witless young coward.” Papa got up, then went to pick up Biyal's hammer. “I will take this to the temple. Go there and pray to God to give you a mind befitting a dog, who bites the man who struck him, then lies down to guard the innocent child in the cradle.” His voice and eyes were hard as desert stones.

Beside Naomi, the guns disappeared almost as quickly as they had come, and Roy Mustang took his bare hands from his trouser pockets.

Naomi stared at her father, her heart pounding in her ears. He drove Biyal to his feet and back toward the smithy with his glare, then turned toward Naomi and the Amestrians. He met his daughter’s eyes, and his face clouded, then softened. Papa held out his hand, the bandages across his palm tinted pink. “It’s all right, Naomi.” His voice was again Papa’s familiar rumble. “Come and walk with me.”

Naomi found herself glancing at the emissary’s wife. Riza Mustang offered her a gentle smile (had she really looked so implacable a moment ago?) and nodded, taking her husband’s arm again.

Naomi turned back toward Papa, and went back to his side. His big hand felt heavier than usual resting on her shoulder. She shivered, and did something she hadn’t done since she was a little girl. She reached up and traced Papa’s sword belt around his back until she found one of the metal buckles that held the scabbard straps, then wrapped her hand around it and clung to her father with all of her strength.


	3. Hoilao Tenaga

1913  
"Maes?"

Colonel Roy Mustang stared at the haphazard towers of files and boxes creating a maze of the office belonging to Major Maes Hughes, proud father of Elysia, doting husband to Gracia, and (if the rumour mill was accurate), soon-to-be Head of Investigations. He saw no sign of the man who supposedly occupied the office. He heard something shift from the general vicinity of the center of the labyrinth, then the sound of a heavy file folder slapping to the carpeted floor.

"Heya Roy! Watch your step."

Now with a general idea of where Hughes was hiding, Roy took a few cautious steps, moving sideways between the precarious piles. "What in the hell are you--" he winced as his cavalry skirt caught and folders and papers slid from one of the stacks to hit the carpet in an avalanche of dull slaps and flutters. "Dammit." He twisted and knelt, and attempted to gather all the papers and photographs back together.

With a low grunt as knees popped from sitting cross-legged on the floor for too long, Hughes rose to his feet and chuckled. "I warned you." He waved dismissively at the mess on the floor that Roy was attempting to clean up. "Don't worry about those. I haven't gone through them yet."

Roy shot him a glare that didn't hold much heat, then straightened, letting the papers fall where they may. "You know if you didn't spend all your time terrorizing your staff with pictures of Elysia, you might actually get some work done."

"Speaking of which..." Hughes said with a predatory grin, stalking his best friend and reaching into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket.

Roy held up a hand to halt him, then pointed at the clock on the back wall. "This isn't a social call."

Hughes glanced back over his shoulder, going from amused, to panicked. "Oh Hell, I'm late," he muttered. He bent and scooped up slides and files from the floor, leaving a trail of detritus in his wake. He deposited the remainder on one side of his desk, then snagged a folder from a teetering stack on the other. "And I forgot to let the sentries at the gate know she was coming,” Hughes said as he blew past the desk.

"I took care of it," Roy said as he carefully backed out of the office. "Professor Durham is already set up in the auditorium. We're just waiting for you."

"Thanks," Hughes said, as the two men fell into step together down the wide corridor. "By the way, still coming over for dinner tonight?"

Roy nodded. "Of course. I'm looking forward to asking the Professor some questions about the details of her treatise."

“Tread lightly, Roy. We've had eyes on her for years, and she'll probably take questions from a high-ranking officer as some kind of interrogation, family dinner or not.”

"I'm not planning to ask about defensive strategies or the specifics of the training of warrior priests in northern Ishbal. I'm just curious about some of the things she mentioned in her books but didn't describe in detail."

"Like what?"

"The naming ritual, for starters. From her description it sounded like infants are named three days after they're born, but then there's another ritual when the kid is thirteen. Why?"

Hughes groaned. "If you ask her that, be prepared to sit there in the dining room until tomorrow morning."

"She can't be any duller than McGuffin."

"McGuffin wouldn't notice if you fell asleep in the middle of his lecture. Professor Isobel Durham will, and she'll wake you up with a taunt chant in Ishbalan, then interrogate you to find out exactly when in the lecture you dozed off."

"That sounds like the voice of experience."

"Wasn't me. I was just one of the ones who had to sit there for an extra half hour because she went back to the middle of the lecture and stopped every few sentences to ask the guy who fell asleep, 'What do you think prompted the development of the child-use honorifics, Mr. Warner?’ ‘Do you have any questions, Mr. Warner?’"

Roy huffed out a short chuckle. “Now I know I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

"Oh?" Maes arched a curious brow, then gazed up at the ceiling, thoughtfully rubbing his chin as a slow, lecherous grin spread across his face. "Well, she is attractive, and sometimes these kinds of relationships can work."

"Have you finally started believing the rumors you start, Maes?"

"Well, everyone knows there's a grain of truth in every rumor. And I've heard you have a thing for older women."

"You're not funny."

"Of course, with all the traveling she's done, I imagine she might be able to teach even you a thing or two."

"Give it a rest, Maes."

"And a May-December relationship might actually be advantageous to your career; especially with her social conn--"

"Hughes!" Roy roared as his friend pushed open the doors into the auditorium, causing a hundred sets of eyes to turn on the two of them.

Most of them belonged to higher-ranking officers, but one set belonged to a handsome, sixtyish woman who stood in front of a white screen. She wore a grey wool dress that hugged her curves and emphasized her femininity without the slightest hint of immodesty. Short dark hair shot with silver framed a round face that crinkled with gentle amusement around deep blue eyes.

Hughes snickered as he trotted down the aisle ahead of Roy. "Thanks, Colonel, but I didn't need an introduction."

"Indeed, not," Professor Isobel Durham said. She stepped off the low stage and strode toward the projector in the center of the aisle. "I can always count on you to be late for class, Major Hughes," she added, mildly. “If you'll take a seat, gentlemen. Your commanding officers told me to cover most of a culture in three days of lecture, so we'd best get started."

Hughes quickly found a seat, and settled in with an embarrassed clearing of his throat. "Heh. Sorry. I was caught up in work." The roll of soft chuckles from the other officers in the room betrayed him. Most of them had, at one time or another, been cornered by Maes Hughes crowing about his daughter.

Roy slipped in and took the seat next to him, smirking over his small victory.

Professor Durham nodded at the lieutenant by the door, and the auditorium lights dimmed. She flipped the switch on the film projector, and it clattered to life. The light within sputtered a few times, then flared brightly, casting images in black and white and multiple shades of silver dancing across the big screen on stage. "The southern Ishvarun tribes in Aerugo..."

As the professor narrated the film, Hughes leaned close to Roy and murmured, "Gracia packed maple-cooked ham for lunch. She made enough for you, too."

Roy shook his head. "Give her my apologies, Maes, but I'll have to pass today. I have a prior engagement."

Hughes’ face softened, and he lowered his voice another notch. "She doesn't even know you're there."

"Don't be so sure of that."

Hughes’ lips pulled down in a thoughtful frown, and he whispered, "After three years, maybe it's safe to--"

"Don't even suggest it, Hughes."

"She's not going to get better, Roy. You tested that the day we found her."

“That’s not the point.” Colonel Mustang ended the conversation by fixing his gaze firmly on the film projecting on the screen.  
~`~`~`~  
“You're going to have a special visitor today," a feminine voice said. Roy Mustang paused outside the open door of room 207 of the Shady Acres Convalescent Home.

"We need to take special care in making you look presentable," the pleasant voice went on. She was new since Roy’s last visit. Shady Acres had a deplorably inaccurate name but an excellent reputation, and Roy did what he could to see to it his ward was treated well, including ingratiating himself with the nurses. He leaned on the doorjamb in his best casually confident pose and watched the young nurse gently run the silver-plated boar's hair brush through the short copper hair of a girl. She sat silently with her hands in her lap next to the window.

Though the girl never responded, the woman kept up the cheerful prattle. "It looks like it'll rain today, and it's a little chilly. You should wear your sweater when you go outside for your walk. You wouldn't want to catch cold, now."

Roy allowed himself a moment’s small smile, then shifted the large stuffed rabbit and the bouquet of brightly colored flowers in his grasp. The paper around the long stems crinkled, announcing his presence. The nurse glanced his way and blushed. "Oh. Hello."

Roy took that as an invitation and entered the room. He nodded at the silent girl in the chair. "You talk to her."

The nurse smiled and returned to brushing the girl's hair. "The doctors say she doesn't know it, but I think she does."

Roy crossed the distance between the door and the girl in the chair, and knelt in front of her. Her blank green eyes continued to stare out the window at the heavy, grey sky. "Happy birthday, Rachel." He set the stuffed rabbit in her lap, taking her hands and placing them around the toy. He cupped his own hand over one of hers and moved it over the soft fur. "Do you feel that?" He let go and smiled as she continued to stroke the rabbit.

"Thank you," he said as he stood. "The other nurses don't talk to her like that.” He offered his hand to the nurse. “Roy Mustang."

"Ah-- Nancy Case. I’m pleased to meet you, sir," the nurse said as she took his hand and nodded at the bouquet. "Would you like me to put those in water?"

"Yes, please," he said as he passed her the flowers.

As the nurse went to the supply cabinet and took down a water pitcher, Roy took her place behind Rachel and picked up the brush. He gently stroked her hair, occasionally brushing the girl's pale cheek and forehead with his knuckles as he moved a curl or her bangs in the wake of the bristles.

"She likes that," the nurse said.

Roy paused and glanced over at her. "Pardon?"

The nurse gestured at his hand, now resting on Rachel's shoulder. "She likes to be touched. You can tell by the way she closes her eyes."

He gazed at the girl, and lightly brushed his knuckles over her cheek, then smiled as her eyes slid closed. "So she does." He faced the nurse again, but his hand remained on Rachel's cheek. "How is she doing?"

"I'm sure the doctor can give you all that information, sir."

Roy shook his head. "No, I want to know what you think. You spend more time with her."

Nancy Case hesitated.

Roy gave her his best encouraging smile. “I know you’re not licensed to give a diagnosis, but that’s not what I’m interested in.”

The girl blushed, then met Roy’s eyes with a smile that said she was as susceptible to his charm as most young women. "She seems to be much happier after she's had a visit. Especially if it's--" the nurse stopped herself. "Especially some of her other visitors," she continued. "They talk to her a lot, and they take her for walks when the weather is good. That’s how I know about her eyes, the-- her other visitors are always touching her: holding her hand, or brushing her hair, and she closes her eyes."

Roy nodded, then graced her with his most charmingly conspiratorial grin. "I'm aware that Madam Christmas and some of her girls come to visit Rachel. They're doing it at my request."

She stared for a long moment, then appeared to realize her mouth was hanging open and clamped it shut. "If... if you don't mind my asking, sir, but... who is Miss Smith to you? She doesn't look like family." Her eyes flicked from Roy’s straight dark hair and Eastern features to Rachel’s wavy red hair and freckled cheeks.

Roy came around the chair and knelt in front of the silent girl once more. "Rachel is... a friend." He reached up and brushed his fingers over the girl's cheek and murmured, "I'm sorry, Rachel, but I have to go. I'll come back when I can, okay?"

The girl continued to stare out the window, but her arms slowly pulled the stuffed rabbit tight against her chest. Roy's eyes widened, then he turned a questioning look at the nurse, who shook her head. "She responds more to familiar people, but I've never seen her do that before."

Roy got to his feet, taking a small notebook from inside his jacket pocket. He scribbled a note and tore out the page, offering it to the stunned nurse. "Please call this number and ask for Doctor Knox if she does anything else unusual..."

1930  
“...it’s not that unusual,” Jean Havoc said.

Riza’s elbow in Roy’s ribs was enough to make him realize he’d missed most of what his aide had said. “I’m sorry?”

“Long trip?” Jean chuckled. “I was just saying that it’s not all that unusual for a new Prime Minister to flex her muscles as soon as she takes office. Things should calm down as soon as she’s done rearranging the furniture and putting her friends and relatives in the cushy jobs.”

“She’s broken the treaty,” Mishyael responded.

“She hasn’t. Not technically,” Roy said. “She’s exploiting an ambiguity, though.”

”Would you like more wine, Zhoji?” Kezhiya asked Jean, quietly.

”No thanks,” Jean responded. ”Why don’t you relax and enjoy your dinner, Kezhi?”

“Then the treaty needs to be changed,” the yevarshedaht said flatly. “The Ishvarun pay land taxes, but they were given no vote in the elections and to their eyes, the ore they dig from the hills crosses the border for nothing, but comes back as tools at three times the price a man pays in Amestris.”

The baby started to fuss, and Roy heard Ysa, Mishyael’s wife, cooing to her softly. A dish was pushed away, then Jean murmured in Ishbalan, “Here, let me take her for a while.”

“You haven’t finished your dinner,” Ysa responded.

“And you haven’t had a chance to eat at all,” Jean scolded lightly. “I know women love babies, but share a little, okay?”

Ysa laughed, and handed her youngest over to Roy’s majordomo. “She just ate, so don’t bounce her too much.”

Down at the far end of the table, Mishyael and Ysa's four other children were talking quietly among themselves. The common tongue rolled rapidly and lyrically between them in a sing-song rhythm that Roy had only heard from Ishbalan children.

Zhevah burbled as Jean got her settled. He picked up the conversation in Amestrian without missing a beat. “At least half the price of those expensive tools is the shipping cost,” he said briskly. “A pack mule can’t carry anywhere near the load of a truck, and she can’t go very fast, either.”

“Let me put your plate in the basket to stay warm,” Kezhiya slipped in.

“Don’t worry about it, Ysa’s cooking’s almost as good cold as it is hot. And trust me, I’ve had a lot worse.”

”Kezhiya,” Ysa said gently, “Please stop. You’re not a servant, you’re a guest.”

”Yes, Jzhallei,” Kezhiya murmured.

“The price of tools is hardly the only complaint,” Mishyael said quietly. His fers clicked audibly as he spun one or the other of the sticks to put a different tool to use. “The Ishvarun were promised a road as far as Haringura Gyagi years ago, but the only road goes to the iron mine, and there are no refineries or foundries in the country.”

“Every time we try to survey a path for the road or choose a place for a refinery, someone goes to the Elders with an argument about either sacred land or grazing and water rights,” Roy said. He found the edge of the thick slab of bread beneath the extravagant lamb piled on top of the fresh vegetables, and took a bite, holding it with the cupped ends of the fers in his right hand. “As is usually the case, everyone wants the roads and the factories, so long as they’re built in someone else’s front yard.”

Havoc was making nonsense noises -- and knowing him probably encouraging Zhevah to grab his nose and ears.

“The tribes are reclaiming their lands,” Ysa commented. Amestrian was her first language, but long periods of disuse had left her with an Ishbalan accent and slight hesitation in her phrasing. “With those lands come the long-standing feuds over the territorial boundaries. You’re being used as a bargaining chip in those squabbles.”

“Great,” Havoc said. “So whatever we do, we’re the bad guys and someone grabs a gun and comes after us for siding with the guys in the next town and building a highway through their pastures.” He tickled Zhevah with some more meaningless syllables, and the infant giggled. Jean murmured, “I’m gonna get those toes. Nom-nom-nom.” The baby started to belly-laugh. Roy heard a muffled smack, and Jean grunted. ”Got your daddy’s kick, don’cha?” he said with a chuckle.

“In another year or two she’ll wrestle you to the floor, Jean,” Roy said mildly. He turned his attention back toward Mishyael. “I hear some Ishbalans are rallying behind their old defender.” He lifted an eyebrow toward the yevarshedaht.

Zhevah let out an infant’s high, happy squeal, and Jean grunted again. “She’s definitely got her father’s legs,” he commented. The little girl then made a much less pleasant sound. “Whoa!” Jean exclaimed, laughing, “Good shot, kiddo.”

“Your shirt!” Kezhiya wailed, even as Ysa’s chair scraped back. “Hurry, go put on a new one so I can wash it before it’s ruined!”

“You stay put,” Havoc said firmly in Ishbalan. “I’ll go put on something clean and put this one in some water.”

“But--”

“But me no buts. You’re a guest here, sweetie, not the chambermaid.”

“I warned you,” Ysa said to Jean, chuckling.

“It’s not the first time,” Jean said, as he backed away from the table. “Probably won’t be the last. Better her than Breda, at least.”

Zhevah burbled a bit, apparently unfazed by the commotion, as Ysa left to clean her up. Jean retreated to his bedroom for a clean shirt.

“I’d still like to know what happened in Mahas, Mishyael. I’ve had six separate sources tell me some pretty disturbing things,” Roy said in Amestrian.

“It was a disturbing negotiation,” Mishyael answered. “Holding the talks on holy ground may have seemed like a good idea to those who planned them, but in fact it only made the tensions worse. We are not to commit violence among the Spires, but no one trusted that your people would obey the same rules.”

“Well everyone knows better now,” Riza spoke up from beside Roy.

Mishyael paused as he took a bite of his dinner. “Unfortunately, the ones who drew their swords first were the mozhkarishki tribal leaders.”

“I thought they didn’t care to get involved at all,” Roy said. “They’ve rejected every offer and invitation we’ve made for the past fifteen years.”

“I heard three of the leaders from the nomadic tribes showed up,” Riza said, “including the yevarzherih. But why wasn’t it in the official report?”

“It’s the mozhkarishki way,” Mishyael said. “Our names are gifts from God and aren’t to be shared casually. Those of us who trade with foreigners make concessions, but the mozhkarishki don’t allow their names to be listed in any foreign records.”

“And ‘foreign’ to them means even the settled Ishvarun,” Ysa put in.

“That must make it hard for them to negotiate,” Riza commented.

“Usually when the mozhkarishki need representation, a jhastovar from one of the settled districts is selected to speak for the tribe. It is his name that will be part of the record,” Mishyael said. “It says something that the tribal leaders came to speak for themselves.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t do anything to benefit them, if we don’t know who they are, or how many of them are out there,” Roy said.

“That is the point, Roy Mustang,” Mishyael said. “They neither want, nor need Amestrian money and interference.”

“Those mountains are rich in ore, though. They could certainly benefit from that.”

“The mozhkarishki still live as Ishvarun did a thousand years ago. They are God’s chosen custodians of the holy lands, and they take that seriously.”

“Yes, but at what price?” Roy frowned.

“That depends on what you want and how soon you want it,” Havoc answered genially as he returned from his bedroom. “If it’s a really good cup of coffee, I know just the place and I’ll only charge you ten Cenz to show you how to get there. You want a trainload of really good coffee beans; give me a radio and a few days.”

“How about a pretty redhead with a Caledonian accent to order around my office?” Roy said lightly.

“Redhead, no problem. Caledonian accent -- I’ll need my fee up front to cover the cost of placing ads in a few dozen newspapers.” Jean paused, then went on with his mouth full. “Someone who’ll put up with you? Gimme a few years, I’ll have to find one young and train her up to it.” He was eating with his fingers. Jean never had mastered the art of using the traditional fers. Fingers, however, were acceptable in polite Ishbalan company, and Jean took full advantage of that... and a lot of napkins.

Ysa returned with Zhevah, and Mishyael said, “Let me have her, nayinha. Finish your dinner.” He settled his daughter in his lap, and murmured softly to her, “Take this, ’zizha, it’s sweet.”

“How drunk was Rebecca when she decided to marry you?” Roy asked Jean.

“Don’t know, I was pretty drunk myself,” Jean said cheerfully. “But at least I asked her myself instead of getting someone else to do it for me.”

“Not funny, Havoc.”

“Take the wine away from him, Kezhiya,” Riza said with a bit of reproachful humor in her tone. “If we let them go on like this none of us will get any sleep tonight.”

“Cruel. But I suppose we can switch to the stronger liquor a bit early,” Roy commented as he finished up his plate. “Rum or whiskey, Mishyael?”

“Do as you like, Roy Mustang, but I don’t intend to have a headache tomorrow morning.” The yevarshedaht sounded as if the very thought was making him ill.

Roy chuckled. “Suit yourself.” He got up and went to the sideboard.

Zhevah began to babble, then the slapping sound of infant hands drumming on an adult’s arm told Roy just what the baby was doing. She sounded pleased with herself, and her father didn’t chide her.

Roy smiled to himself, and instead of setting the bottles on the sideboard, he put them on a tray with the glasses and turned toward the table. “Riza, would you clear my place, please?”

“Oh boy,” Jean groaned with mock dismay. “And me without my raincoat.”

“Just for that smart remark, you get to go fetch the fruit and juice,” Roy retorted.

Havoc laughed. “Sure thing Boss,” he said as he wheeled back from the table then into the kitchen.

Roy shifted into Ishbalan. “I’m going to make myself a drink. I brought some special fruit juices to share, along with a few crates of fruit.”

The doors to the kitchen swung open a moment later, and Havoc returned. He opened up a basket, and Roy could smell the tart mixture of citrus and tropical fruit juices mingling with fresh strawberries, bananas and mangos. Ysa and the children made happy sounds as Jean set the rare treats on the table in front of Roy.

“If any of you would like a little something--” Roy took hold of the rum bottle “--speak up.” He gave the bottle an end-over-end toss to his other hand, and enjoyed the gasps and giggles as he fixed himself a Dublith Double Punch.

The children were duly impressed with Roy’s theatrical method of pouring even fruit juice. Mishyael contented himself with another glass of wine while Zhevah sat quietly in his lap and examined a strawberry. The talk wandered through innocuous topics, then trended back onto weightier matters.

“We’re still looking for the ones who vandalized your home,” Mishyael said heavily. “I walked the walls myself that night, but I heard nothing, and none of the watchmen noticed anything unusual.”

“From the looks of it there were at least two or three people in on it,” Jean said. “You can’t rip that much steel out with just one guy and a horse. You’d need a couple guys with big horse teams, or a whole lot of guys willing to pull on a block and tackle.” He’d had two Rush Valley Wrenches and sounded stone sober. “This wasn’t some bunch of angry drunks looking for something to tear up. This was organized.”

“It’s not the only one, either,” Riza said quietly. “There have been attacks on Amestrian homes and businesses all over Ishbal, and lately more and more assaults on people.”

“And most of the time the only description the victims can give is, ‘He was a big Ishbalan’,” Roy said ruefully.

“That’s why the Elders sent me south,” Mishyael said. He shifted into Amestrian and went on. “I carried the words of the Elders of Xerxes. They see what’s happening, and they gave me words to say to their brothers and sisters in the south.”

“And sending you added more punch to their point,” Jean said. “You had a whole country scared shitless, after all.”

“That man died fifteen years ago,” Mishyael growled.

“The rumour mill says he’s risen from the dead,” Roy countered.

“Fools start that nonsense every time there’s trouble in Ishvar,” Ysa said firmly. “The cowards want someone else to do the actual fighting, so they try to resurrect a man from an oversimplified and exaggerated story.”

“Yes, but not with this much conviction.” Roy paused, then changed tracks. He pitched his voice softer. “What happened, Mishyael? The reports conflict. Some of them say you killed an Amestrian soldier, others claim it was an Ishbalan.”

“I didn’t kill at all.” Mishyael hesitated. “The negotiations broke down. Miles and I and the local yevarshedaht were too badly outnumbered, and there would have been deaths. I-- I put a wall between the Amestrians and the Ishvarun before they could kill each other.” He took a deep swallow of his wine, then set his glass down on the table again. The entire table had gone silent, except for Zhevah’s cooing. The older children were obviously aware the adults were talking about something important. “The Elders have heard the story, and they chose the punishment for the breach.”

Roy nodded. “Miles said in his report that you acted only to prevent bloodshed.” He rubbed his chin. “If it would help, I can talk to the Elders about reducing your sentence. I’d rather not see you suffer some lengthy or humiliating punishment for saving the lives of my people.”

“This isn’t something to discuss in front of the children,” Ysa said chidingly. “The official dinner party is tomorrow. You can argue the treaty with the Elders and yevarshedaht, then.” She paused and tapped the table. “This is a night for old friends to catch up with each other.”

“I thought they didn’t understand Amestrian,” Havoc said. “Do you understand Amestrian?” he asked Zhevah. She squealed happily, and Jean responded, “Well pardon me. You’re a very smart baby, indeed.”

“They don’t, but they understand when adults are talking over their heads. You should know that, Jean, you have children.” Ysa shifted into the common tongue. “How are they, by the way?”

“Growing like puppies, eating like horses, and running rings around their poor slow-witted dad in school.”

Roy picked up a barely-there scent of joss and mulberries to his left, and hesitated with his glass raised. His lips quirked as he mentally started counting down, five, four, three, two--

"So your little ones are taking after their clever mother!" said an overly cheerful voice with a strong Xingese accent. The baby gasped and started to whimper. Ysa blurted a curse in Ishbalan. Naomi and Jesu squeaked, and dishes and cups clattered as the twins jumped up. Roy obligingly let his wife shove him under the table and he heard Havoc murmur, “Get down.”

He jumped when something bumped against his knee, and Kezhiya whispered, “Sorry, Zhoji.”

Mishyael calmed the baby, then said in an exasperated tone, "When will you learn to use the door, Ling?"

"The big, scary guards wouldn't let me in!" the Xingese Emperor complained in a falsetto. He plucked something off the disordered table and ate it before going on. “They didn’t even look at me!

“Probably because you were up on the roof,” Roy said as he pulled himself out from among the table legs. “If you showed up at the gates dressed like the Xingese Emperor rather than a cat burglar, you could walk right in and sit down with us.”

Darius and Heinkel thundered in, and Roy knew their guns were drawn, in spite of the "no weapons" rule at an Ishbalan dinner table.

Naomi let out a strangled cry, then the table thumped twice as she and Jesu dove underneath. Two young voices cried out in challenge, and Zhevah squealed with delight.

There was some scuffling and a few grunts, then Darius spoke in a tone of utter disbelief, “You’re kidding, right?”

“I don’t think they are,” Heinkel responded. “Hey kid, why don’t you go attack the little guy who just sneaked in here?”

“Nobody points a gun at my mom!” one of the twins declared with conviction. “Put down the gun and surrender, I’ve got you!”

Zhevah shouted a string of excited baby-babble, and enthusiastically slapped her father's bare arm. Mishyael sighed. “Please forgive my sons’ enthusiasm, gentlemen.” He used the Amestrian word in the midst of an Ishbalan sentence. “They have as yet not had many chances to test their training.”

“They’re not doin’ too bad,” Heinkel answered. “I’ve never had a little kid doing an impression of a glove on my arm before.”

“You’re supposed to get a broken arm and surrender!” the child told him indignantly.

“Take a few years and grow into that attitude, short stuff,” Heinkel advised him. Then he said to his partner, “Don’t hang him up like that for too long. All the blood’ll rush to his head and his brains’ll pop out through his ears.” This last was delivered with a near purr on the part of the blond body guard.

“What’re you gonna do with yours?” Darius asked as the twin he was holding made boyish threats and demands.

“I figure I’ll just let him wear himself out, then I’ll feed him to the snarks and boojums down in the basement. They haven’t eaten yet.”

The twins struggled with renewed energy... and vociferous commentary.

“Baju”, Mishyael finally ordered. “You’ve imposed on the emissary’s men enough. Return to your seats.”

“Put me down, please?” a twin asked, meekly.

“Sure,” Darius said. “Allez... up!”

“Whoa!” The boy hit the floor with his feet, and stumbled a few steps. “Dizzy now.”

“Sit down, then, Diyari,” the child’s mother said.

“Yes, Momma,” Diyari said, and shuffled back to his seat. His brother thumped to the floor a moment later, probably in one of the more unbelievable acrobatic stunts Ishbalan boys started learning almost as soon as they could walk.

"Sorry, Emissary," Heinkel said as he snapped the safety on his sidearm with an audible click and slipped it back into the shoulder holster hidden under his jacket, "We never even heard him."

Roy waved the apology off. "You know you wouldn't have. But stay alert, I have no doubt Ran Fan is lurking nearby. Just call up to the roof and invite her in."

“No need,” said another Xingese-accented voice from the staircase.

“I’m going to have to put the ungwaiyar through another round of nightwatch training,” Mishyael said matter-of-factly. “One missed intruder is a moment’s inattention. Two is carelessness.” He shifted in his seat, then his low rumble came from below the level of the table. ”You can come out, Kezhiya.”

“Carelessness or Xingese.” Jean’s grin rang clearly through his words. “Don’t go too hard on them, it’s not like anyone sees Ran Fan before she’s good and ready to be seen.”

“Where’s the fun in walking in the gate?” Ling said laughingly. “Oh, it’s Kezhiya! Good evening, my beautiful lady! Have you chosen yet? Which other suitors must I challenge for you?”

Kezhiya gasped and giggled. She could still be easily embarrassed by Ling’s harmless flirting.

“Zhoji Jean,” Izyan answered promptly. “When she’s old enough she’s going to come live here and be a slave-wife to Zhoji Jean.”

“Izyan!” the girl protested in horror.

“It’s true!” Diyari piped up. “She--”

“Ye’en!” Mishyael bellowed. Zhevah whimpered again, and he softly shushed, quickly calming her.

Roy heard a sob, then running feet. “Riza--”

“On it.” She went after the distraught girl.

“I apologize for my sons’ behavior, Jean Havoc,” Mishyael said stiffly.

“They’re little kids,” Jean answered. “And I think Kezhiya’s the one they need to apologize to.”

“Yes, they do,” Ysa said, stern. Roy heard the boys shift uncomfortably.

“Perhaps I can offer a suggestion?” Ling said, his tone abruptly much lower and more measured.

“Please do, Your Majesty,” Roy replied in Xingese.

“Your accent is still appalling, Emissary,” the Emperor of Xing told him before shifting back into Ishbalan. “In my country, if the one accused is guilty, the victim or the victim’s family chooses the punishment. So perhaps Kezhiya will choose what the boys must do?”

“They are Ishbalan children,” Ran Fan said. “There is a punishment usually given to children, isn’t there? A maze in the temple courtyard?”

“The Sinner’s Path,” Mishyael stated. “Yes, but that teaches them nothing about why their words offended.”

“Maybe you could take away their favorite toys?” Jean suggested. “We can give them all to Princess Zhevah, huh?” he cooed. The baby squealed and Mishyael grunted softly. “Such a flirt,” Jean added.

“Or more than that,” Ysa said. “I think, since the boys believe Kezhiya is a servant girl, rather than their sister, perhaps they should try on her clothes.”

One of the twins yelped in wordless protest, then abruptly fell silent, probably at a parental glance.

“Try on...” Jean trailed off. “Oh, you mean-- wait. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“She’s talking about having the twins try on being servants,” Ling said.

“Now that’s something I wouldn’t have thought of,” Roy mused. “I’d be willing to take them for a day or two.”

“Three,” Mishyael rumbled. “As penitents serve for three days.”

“I’ll take one, you take the other, Roy,” Ling said more cheerfully. “I can always use another pair of running feet to fetch me this and that.”

“They still need to go to Temple in the morning, for their studies,” Ysa said.

“Of course,” Roy said.

“Their time will be shortened,” Mishyael added. “They will be expected to return to the consulates after their classes, and they will miss their nksun training.”

“But--” Diyari complained, then cut off abruptly.

“I can send Darius to pick them up,” Roy said, lightly. “Just to make sure they don’t get lost.”

“Done,” Mishyael said. “Do you understand what your punishment will be?” He asked the boys.

“Yes, Papa,” they answered in glum unison.

“Do you understand why you will serve the Emissary and the Emperor?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“But it’s still true,” Diyari muttered.

“Kezhiya cares about Jean Havoc,” Mishyael said in a severe tone, then quickly modulated it when Zhevah started to fuss again, “That does not mean she intends to destroy his marriage vows, and it is both false and cruel to suggest otherwise. You shamed your sister and Jean, embarrassed me and your mother, disrupted a dinner with old friends, and made fools of yourselves. Therefore you will spend three days as servants.”

“Three days,” Ysa murmured in Amestrian, with a hint of a waver.

“They will be safe, Beloved,” Mishyael said gently. “Frightened and lonely, as Kezhiya once was, but safe. And when they come home they’ll carry a valuable lesson with them.”

“Yes,” she answered faintly. She took a deep breath, then returned to Ishbalan. “Will you and Ran Fan sit and eat with us, Emperor?” She scooted plates along the tabletop. “There’s plenty.”

“I was hoping you’d ask!” Ling’s clothing rustled as he seated himself. “I haven’t had a bite since we left the imperial train.”

“Why didn’t you stay with the train?” Mishyael asked.

“Because I wanted to relive old times--”

“--and the locomotive broke an axle,” Ran Fan finished.  
~`~`~`~  
Riza found Kezhiya in the depths of the pony shed. Mayshi, the sturdy draft pony on loan for the convenience of the Amestrian Emissary and his staff, put her head over her stall door to investigate the movement as Riza carried her lantern past. Riza rubbed the animal’s jaw, then slipped into the closet where the pony’s harness hung neatly awaiting use.

Kezhiya, with her embroidered green head wrap draped loosely around her shoulders, sat wedged between a feed storage trunk and the wall, with her face pressed to her knees and her shoulders shaking. Riza set the lantern down on the floor, then sank down beside it to wait.

“I want to go with you,” the girl finally choked out.

“You can ask Roy to bring it up with the Elders again,” Riza answered.

“I can sew,” Kezhiya said. “I’ve been working hard, and... and I can make fancy dresses like Amestrian ladies like.” She hiccuped and sniffled, then went on. “I can work for Zhoji Jean’s sister. She makes dresses too, and I can help.”

Riza hesitated, then sighed softly. “Kezhi, have you thought about it carefully?”

The girl looked up at her, her tear-stained face reminding Riza of that scared thirteen year-old child the Elders had put under the Emissary’s -- and by implicit extension the Amestrian army’s -- protection three years ago. Kezhiya swiped at her cheeks and straightened. “I--I wouldn’t try to be Zhoji Jeans slave-wife! I swear it.”

Riza smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind Kezhiya’s ear. The silver-white roots had reached past the girl’s shoulders now. She’d be trimming off the dark ends soon in the final act of leaving childhood behind. “I know that, Kezhi. So does Jean.” Her smile disappeared. “There isn’t a gentle way to put this, so I’ll just say it. There are still people in Amestris who don’t like Ishbalans. If the thoughtless words of two young children upset you this much, how can you stand against an adult who would use worse words... or threaten your life?”

“Zhoji Jean and Roy can make them stop.”

“It’s not that easy,” Riza said, “And they can’t be there to protect you all the time.”

Kezhiya fingered her scarf, tracing a line of stitches that had repaired it after she’d been assaulted in the market almost three years ago. The mending was exquisite and difficult to see, unless you knew where to look. Riza was certain that those stitches, applied by Jean Havoc, were the reason the girl had chosen to become a seamstress. “I hate it here,” Kezhiya whispered. “The girls laugh at me, and the boys don’t... don’t like me.” She started to sob into her arms again, and Riza was hard-pressed to hear what the girl said next. “The men in the market s-say that if I c-claim an Amestrian tribe, I-I have to act like an... an Amestrian wo-woman. And then... then they o-offer me m-money to... to...” She broke down and cried openly.

This stilled Riza. “Have you told Mishyael?”

Kezhiya’s head snapped up and her eyes went wide as she frantically shook her head. “He’d get mad! And he’d-- he’d--” she broke off and shook her head again. “Please. Don’t tell him.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Kezhiya,” Riza said, rubbing the girl’s back. “Mishyael wouldn’t punish you, but he might have a talk with the men who are treating you badly.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Zhoji will get mad at them.”

Dawn struck, and Riza couldn’t keep from smiling. “I’m sure that Mishyael can control his temper better than that.”

“But he did that at Saza’s Temple,” Kezhiya practically whispered, then she covered her mouth, as though saying it out loud would invoke the incident again.

Riza’s brows shot up. “You’ve been practicing.”

Kezhiya nodded. “I kept learning after you went back to Central City. I listen to the Amestrian traders in the market, and-- and reading the letters Jean’s family sends me.” She hung her head. “I wanted to be able to speak your language when I went to visit his family, someday.” Kezhiya sniffled. “Jean must hate me now.”

“I don’t think so. But let’s ask him.” Riza got up and offered the girl her hand.  
~`~`~`~  
Jean scrubbed at a serving dish, inspected it, then sighed and attacked a stubborn lump of something. The stack of dishes awaiting his attention didn’t seem to have shortened much.

At least the sink had survived the vandalism, and finding someone in Xerxes who could repair the pump-handle wasn’t difficult. The gas ovens, however, were probably a complete loss, and Jean Havoc was glad he hadn’t had a lit cigarette when he’d first opened the door. The original brick ovens and chimneys would have to be cleaned thoroughly before they could be safely used, but the pit in the courtyard was still functional. Two ungwaiyar were out there now, tending the whole lamb that would be the centerpiece of tomorrow’s ‘official’ dinner.

The kitchen door creaked softly, and Jean turned to see Riza step inside, followed by a tearstained and bedraggled Kezhiya.

“Well good evening, ladies,” Jean greeted them with a grin. “What can I get for you? Food? Music? A tame unicorn each?”

“One of these days I’m going to say yes to the unicorn, just to see how you would get a mythical animal,” Riza answered with a small smile.

“A good Jean-ie never reveals his secrets,” Jean quipped, glancing to Kezhiya’s face. The girl’s expression lightened a little. Jean gentled his tone. “You didn’t finish your dinner, sweetie. There’s a plate there on the table for you.”

“Oh.” The girl went and sat at the table, staring at the upended serving bowl placed over the plate and the clean fers atop a green napkin with the emissary’s seal. “Thank you.”

“Is Roy taking his bath?” Riza asked.

“Nope, he’s upstairs putting Diyari to bed.” Jean returned to the sink.

“Diyari?” Kezhiya said sharply.

“Yeah. Ling and Roy flipped a coin, and we got Diyari.” Jean glanced over his shoulder at the girl. “He’s with us for three days; sort of a live-in errand boy who doesn’t get to go to his ass-kicking classes. Izyan’s spending three days with Ling.”

“Whose idea was this?” Riza asked.

“Ysa’s. She said that since the twins seem to think Kezhiya’s some sort of servant, they should understand what that actually means.”

Kezhiya bit her lip. “I’m supposed to be their sister.”

“And you are,” Jean replied. “Trust me, brothers do that kind of dumb thing to sisters all the time.”

“Then your sisters turn you into a living mannequin and auction you off to the highest bidder,” Riza said lightly.

Jean grinned. “Luc out-cheated me. I’m so proud.” He turned to Kezhiya. “I taught him everything he knows about rigging the odds.”

Kezhiya offered a hesitant smile. “Your sisters didn’t really auction you...?”

“Wanna bet?” Jean stretched his back and flexed his shoulders, then struck an arrogantly relaxed pose, his eyes dancing. “I brought a very high price, you know. The ladies got into a pretty impressive bidding war.”

Kezhiya’s cheeks flushed bright red.

“Jean.” Riza got up and took the dishrag from the counter, slapping the blond man lightly in the head with the damp fabric. “Your sister Katrin auctioned off your services as an embroiderer, with a few hours of your company thrown in for whoever would want it.”

“She put me in a red shirt and had me sitting on a pedestal trying to embroider a pegasus on ladies’ underwear while Ciel took bids on me.” Jean shook his head in mock dismay and plunged his hands back into the sink. “My own brother and sisters, auctioning me off without even giving me a cut.”

“It was a charity auction,” Riza told him with fond humor. Her manner changed. “Speaking of people coveting your attention: Kezhiya has something to ask you about.”

“Hm?” Jean turned to look over his shoulder. “What’s on your mind, honey?”

Kezhiya’s blush darkened still more.

Jean’s expression softened. “Is this about what Izyan said?”

Kezhiya ducked her head and nodded. “Do you hate me now?” Her voice came out high and choking.

“What?” Jean exchanged a glance with Riza, then dried his hands and eased over beside Kezhiya. “Hey, I think my stupid just kicked in. How do you get from a little kid making a dumb comment to me hating the girl who founded the Havoc tribe?”

Kezhiya sniffled. “I don’t want to be your slave-wife. I like you. You’re nice to me, and you’re funny.” She took a deep breath and went on, wavering a bit. “But it would be wrong.” She looked down at her plate, still untouched.

“Yeah... and it wouldn’t be fair to you, either.” Jean fished out an Amestrian-style handkerchief. “I’m a lot older than you are, for starters.” He offered her the hankie.

“I want to see your country,” Kezhiya said, drying her face. “Maybe there’s someone there...”

Jean waited, then when Kezhiya didn’t go on, he patted her arm. “Could be. I’ll get Roy to try again with the Elders. Now that the rail line is open it’ll be much easier and safer for you to come for a visit, and I know my mom would love to show you around Stonebridge and point out every place my brothers and I got into trouble.” He paused and looked into the distance for a moment. “That by itself could take days, and it’s not a big town.”

Kezhiya giggled weakly. By the time Roy came down from tucking Diyari into bed, Kezhiya was crying again -- but this time from laughter as Jean Havoc told one outrageous tale of his family and his childhood after another. Roy’s arrival only added more fuel to the fire.

The girl was exhausted but much happier when Heinkel finally escorted her home.  
~`~`~`~  
Ysa cooed softly to Zhevah as she changed the sleepy baby’s diaper and dressed her for the night. It didn’t take long for the infant to fall into a deep sleep while Ysa gently rocked her and sang a soft lullaby. Zhevah didn’t stir when Ysa laid her in the crib that sat at the end of the bed she shared with her husband, and tucked a blanket around the baby.

She climbed the stairs, and softly entered the room on the right. The full moon was shining through the thin curtains, casting a pale light across one bed with a small lump curled up under the covers. Across the room, the moonlight shone on the empty top bunk, highlighting the tangled blankets. The bottom bunk was cast in deep shadow, but Ysa was sure it was just as rumpled. She started toward the beds with the intention of straightening the covers, then stopped herself. Instead she went the other way, and settled on the edge of the single bed under the window. She gently brushed the hair off Jesu’s forehead, then leaned down and gave him a light kiss. His slow, even breathing never changed.

She located one of the twins’ satchels, and quietly packed enough clothes for three days for each of them. She started out of the room, paused, then returned to the bunk beds. She felt around on the indifferently made bottom bed, then found the leg of Diyari’s stuffed dog sticking up between the mattress and the wall. Puca was worn, missing half his fuzz and one eye, and had had each of his limbs stitched back on at least once, but Diyari would be miserable without him.

She held Puca up to her face, breathed in her son’s scent, then closed her eyes and nuzzled the battered, much-loved toy. With a deep, steadying breath, Ysa reached up to the top bunk to fish Izyan’s well-worn baby blanket out from under the quilt, then stuffed Puca and blanket into the satchel, tied it closed, and left the room.

She crossed the hall, and pushed open the door with a creak. Naomi was in bed, but she stirred at the sound.

Ysa set the satchel on the floor next to the wide bed Naomi shared with Kezhiya, and settled on the edge. She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her daughter’s eyes. “I thought you’d be sound asleep by now.”

Naomi yawned and shook her head, then frowned. “Why are some people so mean?”

“Your brothers aren’t deliberately mean. They’re still little and need to learn.”

“Izyan and Diyari are just bratty,” Naomi said. She stared out the window for a long moment, and Ysa started to lean down and plant a soft kiss on her daughter’s cheek, but paused when Naomi spoke again. Her voice was soft and low, and she didn’t look back at Ysa. “How did Papa get the scar on his face?”

Ysa sat up, took a deep breath, and brushed her hand lightly across her daughter’s cheek. “That’s not my story to tell, minya. You should ask your father.”

“Did he have it when you married him?” There was something tense and frightened in Naomi’s question.

“Yes, he did,” Ysa answered quietly. “The rest is his to tell you, but for now, you need to sleep." She got up and smiled reassuringly at her daughter. “You’re going to have a tough time waking up in the morning.”

Naomi yawned again, nodded, and rolled over. “‘Night, Momma.”

“Sleep well, sweetheart.” Ysa padded out of the room and down the stairs with the satchel for the twins. A light rap on the front door alerted her before she’d reached the bottom step.

She opened the door, and saw Kezhiya first. “Hello, Kezhi. You look flushed. Did Jean play his fiddle and ask you to dance again?” she asked, lightly.

Kezhiya started to giggle, then covered her mouth. Ysa exchanged a glance with Heinkel, the big blond body guard who’d escorted the girl home, and he whuffed softly.

Kezhiya crossed the threshold and Ysa wrapped her in a hug. “I apologize for the boys, Kezhi.” She held out the satchel for Heinkel to take. The body guard took it, and nodded to her. As he started to leave, Ysa said, “Oh, the stuffed dog is Diyari’s, and the blanket is Izyan's.”

“I’ll make sure they get them.”

Ysa let go of Kezhiya, and murmured softly, “Go on to bed, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Jzhallei,” the girl said, then headed up the stairs.

“How are the boys?” Ysa asked Heinkel.

The large man hesitated, sympathy in the pull of his lips and the softening of his gaze. “They’re settled in for the night, Ma’am. But they cried a little.”

Ysa’s heart lurched and her eyes stung. “Oh dear.”

“I can bring them home...”

Ysa shook her head. “No. No, they’re safe. This is a hard lesson, but they need to learn that their actions have consequences.” She gave him a weak smile. “I’ll survive three days.”

Heinkel nodded, then took his leave. Ysa closed the door and leaned against it as she wiped her eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths before passing through the kitchen and out the back door in search of her husband.

Ysa found Mishyael at the back wall of the garden, gazing up at the full moon. As she joined him, he draped an arm around her shoulders. She gazed up at her husband’s face. In contrast to the sharp edged shadows and the monochromatic silver of the ruins below, his expression was open and his body relaxed. Even the scarring on his face had softened around the edges in the cool light of the moon.

She snuggled in close, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her ear against his chest. His heart thrummed slow and strong and soothing. He held her close, his thumb stroking her shoulder.

“Heinkel brought Kezhi home,” she said, after a while. “He said the boys were settled in--” her voice grew husky and choked. “They cried.” Ysa tried to hide a sniffle.

Mishayel’s arm tightened on her shoulders. “You’re a good mother, nayinha. And the boys will be fine.”

Ysa sighed, and sniffled again. “I know, nyeri. And they’ll probably forget their family in all the fun they’ll have.” She leaned back and gazed up at her husband. “You know they’re going to, even if they work.”

Mishyael’s expression lightened. “Yes, but when they go to bed, they’ll think about how lonely they are, and they will remember how Kezhi felt when she first came to live with us.” He frowned and gazed directly at her. “Would you rather I had argued for only one day? If you’d have spoken up--”

“No, it’s fine.” Ysa sighed and shook her head. “It’s just... none of the children has been away from home overnight since they were born.” She leaned into her husband’s solid form. “I think I’ll miss them more than they’ll probably miss us.”

Mishyael hugged her close and kissed her softly on her temple. “And the other children?”

“Kezhi has recovered from her humiliation. Jesu was asleep before he finished climbing the stairs. Naomi was still wound up about the day. She’s going to be tough to wake up in the morning... and Zhevah got so worn out playing with Jean that she’ll sleep through the night.” Ysa slid her palms up her husband’s broad chest. Her head tilted a little as she gazed at him through her lashes.

Mishyael’s brow rose. He gently lifted her long, thick braid, then let it snake through his palm until he found the shard that hung at the end of the string of pearls. He thumbed the shell and murmured, “May I take down your hair, Beloved?”


	4. Olschka Zimyair

For Abisha, the best part of his job as watchman were the mornings. The undulating dunes stretched as far as the eye could see, and in the pale light of dawn, they appeared almost surreal in shades of purple and grey. From this height, the landscape was alien and almost magical. As the morning air warmed and caressed the chilled sands, a light mist rose, and for the briefest of moments, the past aeons of the desert and ancient Xerxes whispered just below the thrumming of a human heart. Abisha felt... tiny, but not insignificant, and he would always murmur a prayer in thanks to Ishvarra at this moment. “Yishvarra, Dyenes Yeta. Yols hatemzherit...”

By the time his prayer was complete, the moment would be past and the ever-shifting dunes would grow warm and red. The vastness of the brilliant blue sky warred with the emptiness of the golden sands. Many called the desert around Xerxes desolate and lonely, but to Abisha it was clean and vast and closer to God than even the toz.

Soon the sun would climb high enough to wash out the rich hues of the sky and the sand, and Abisha would spend the rest of his shift gazing across the distance through field glasses, but for now, he meditated and appreciated the gifts God had seen fit to bestow upon him.

Majid, who watched through the nights, went about his end-shift duties: dousing the beacon fires and sweeping out the ashes, then hanging the mirrors over the side. When the sun rose above the mountains far to the east, he turned over the binoculars. If anything happened in the night -- traders at the caravanserai a day away or changing winds warning of a storm -- he would tell Abisha, but if it was uneventful, he would merely bow and leave. This morning, however...

"Taj and Kamilah have been bickering all night," Majid said as he handed over the glasses, his brow raised in amusement.

Abisha rolled his eyes. "They're always bickering."

"Yes, but this time she actually caught him in Sarafina's bed."

Abisha scowled. "Listening to gossip?"

Majid shouldered his pack and chuckled. "Voices carry a lot further at night, my friend." He nodded in the general direction of Kamilah's home, far down the hill from the temple. "Keep an eye out. If she's finally had enough, you might need to send an ncksun with a cloak to save Taj's dignity."

"If Taj would just acknowledge Kamilah’s baby as his, he wouldn't have to worry about his 'dignity'."

Majid snorted. “If he had the sense to do that, he wouldn’t have climbed into Sarafina’s bed in the first place.” He waved and disappeared down the long spiraling stairs of the tower.

Abisha uncapped the field glasses and made the first sweep of his quadrant. He visually marked the place he knew was a day's walk from the city. The caravanserai was one of four that ringed Xerxes, and offered a good place to camp for the night for weary traders who had crossed the Great Desert. They were rough, with no inns to provide hot meals and comfortable beds, and only the remains of ruined walls to block the winds. But there was fresh water and feed stores kept stocked for the camels and horses.

The first sweep offered a distorted shimmer of a possible caravan to the south. The farmers were already at work in the fields that skirted the eastern edge of the ancient city. The tumbled ruins circling the base of the hill were quiet. They were populated by only a few marked exiles and thugs. It wasn't unusual for a visitor or a child to go exploring and be robbed or injured. The safety of the people within the city's walls was as much a part of his job as keeping an eye out for caravans or the unlikely invasion, and Abisha took his responsibilities seriously.

He caught sight of a single rider on a horse coming up the road. At his casual speed, Abisha estimated he'd reach the city in about three hours. He was dressed in typical Ishvarun desert robes, but his hood was down, exposing white hair pulled back. The horse was not moving at a gallop, but at a mere trot, and there wasn't a pack pony following behind. If the rider was carrying a message, it wasn't urgent, but he would still send his ncksun (and where was that boy? He was already half an hour late) down to alert the stable master.

Abisha brought his gaze down toward the maze of narrow alleys and tightly packed apartments which were built one atop of another with little thought toward navigation or design. From the tower, they looked for all the world like children's building blocks carelessly dropped in a pile.

There was a flicker of movement off to Abisha's left, where Kamilah lived, and he focused in, then sighed out a soft chuckle. The morning sun had yet to warm the cobbles and walls of the alley, where a naked man, cupping his genitals in an effort to retain the last shred of his dignity, shuffled and danced in the chill air while banging on Kamilah's locked door.

Behind Abisha, he heard dragging steps climbing the tower, accompanied by soft groans and wheezing. He glanced over his shoulder as Yishai, a pudgy boy of about ten and the nksun on duty for the day, reached the top of the stairs. He fell against the wall and slid down, red-faced and gasping for air. Abisha felt a little sympathy for the boy. He’d been indulged far too much for his short life. The Elders had practically ordered the boy's parents to send him through nksun training both to keep him out of trouble and to run some of the fat off of him.

"Catch your breath," he said. "You're needing to find a yevarshedaht and tell him that Kamilah evicted her urike, then hurry to the stables and tell Tiras that there’s a rider coming in on a tired horse." At the boy's stricken look, Abisha shrugged apologetically. "Duty calls, son."

With a groan as his only protest, Yishai came to his feet and trudged down the long, winding stairs of the tower.

"At least it’s easier to go down," Abisha called after the nksun. He caught the edge of a mumbled curse and chuckled.

Abisha brought his field glasses up, and made another scan of the desert. The shadowed shimmer far to the south was larger now, but still too far away to properly identify as a caravan. He swept the sand to the east, and found another wavering blob appear over the brow of a distant hill. "Looks like things are going to get busy, soon."  
~`~`~`~  
“Naomi, get up! You’re late!” Ysa’s voice rang through the household.

Mishyael rubbed his eyes as he emerged from the bedroom, then winced when running feet pounded across the floor overhead.

"Coming, Momma!"

“Did you give her permission to keep a horse upstairs?”

Ysa glanced at him, and her expression softened. "Tea?"

"Please," he croaked.

She headed toward the kitchen and Mishyael started to follow, but jumped back as his daughter galloped down the stairs. "Day's blessing, Papa!" Naomi called as she charged out the door and neglected to pull it shut.

He closed the forgotten front door and resumed his journey to the kitchen. A joyful squeal and a tug at his trouser-leg alerted him just in time to avoid stepping on Zhevah. He bent and scooped the infant up in his arm, and was rewarded with a baby bear-hug around his neck. He loosened her grip and tapped her on the nose. "Day's blessing, lekhaya," he said, as he planted a kiss on her tight little fist, "where have you been exploring this morning?"

She babbled and gurgled, and he listened intently. He opened her fist and looked down at her palm, which was grey with dust. "Have you been out to the garden? Or are you starting one of your own?"

Kezhiya came trotting down the stairs with a broom in hand. "Sorry, Zhoji," she said, bowing deeply. "I overslept this morning."

"I think every--" There was a high-pitched yelp, then something crashed and shattered in the kitchen, and he could hear Ysa cursing softly. "--body did. Nayinha, can I help?"

"I've got it," she called.

Mishyael skirted around Kezhiya and stopped at the kitchen door. His wife was on her knees picking up the shards of a broken teacup. On the counter beside her, fresh herbs were spread out, waiting to be tied and hung to dry. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Ysa produced a cloth from her apron and wiped up the puddle spreading across the polished clay tiles, then rose to her feet. "Of course." She tilted her head and glanced at something under the table. "Just watch where you walk."

Mishyael knelt to get a better look at what had his wife’s attention, then blinked. Beneath the table, a small, brown ball of fur with soulful dark eyes gazed back at him and tentatively wagged its tail. Zhevah babbled in delight and nearly dove out of his arm, and Mishyael reflexively caught her with his free hand. "There is a dog under our table," he said as he stood, "why?"

"Doctor Alphonse brought him by this morning," Ysa said, her back to her husband as she poured more tea. She turned and handed him the steaming cup. "Remember? He asked us if we'd like to take a puppy from a litter he'd found. Of course that was a few weeks ago; they had to grow some first."

Zhevah lunged for the hot tea in his left hand, and he sloshed a little over the bandages as he jerked it out of her reach. He hissed, then set the cup down on the counter and shook the burn from his hand.

"Here, let me take her," Ysa said, reaching for the infant. She settled the baby on her hip, lightly bouncing her. "He said the puppy won't get very big, and he'll be a nice pet for the kids."

The puppy darted out from under the table and started running circles around Mishyael. He twisted and turned in his spot, watching the yipping, wriggling, bouncing ball of fluff. "'Pet'? You mean 'useless'. It's too small to do any real work."

"Not every animal needs to be food or a worker, nyeri," Ysa said, lightly.

"Amestrian logic." He sighed, "But I won't argue with you over something so small."

Ysa snickered softly at the unintentional pun as she set Zhevah in the swing hanging from the kitchen ceiling. She gave it a gentle push, then turned back to her herbs. The puppy barked and bounced back and forth chasing the swaying swing.

Kezhiya swept past the kitchen doorway. The puppy decided her broom was an easier target than Zhevah's toes, and darted off, yipping. "Shoo!" the girl snapped as she tapped her broom on the floor. The puppy yipped and whined, then scrambled back under the relative safety of the table.

Mishyael picked up his teacup and blew across the top of the hot amber liquid. "Are you having lunch with the emissary’s wife today?" he asked softly.

Ysa stopped in the middle of tying a bunch of sage, and laid her hands lightly on the edge of the counter. Her green eyes stared straight ahead, darkening a little. "Yes," she whispered.

He reached out and brushed a stray lock of copper hair from her cheek. "Why do you do this when it only brings you grief, nayinha?"

"I have to know. I have to know they're all right." She hesitated a long moment, then faced Mishyael, tears glittering at the edge of her lashes. "I can never go back, but I can still make sure they're doing well."

He wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling her close to him, then nuzzled her hair and laid a soft kiss at her temple. "Roy Mustang has the power to protect them. You know they're safe."

She cuddled in closer and hugged him tight, putting her ear to his chest and the reassuring sound of his heartbeat. Mishyael stroked her back and waited.

"I would think," a feminine voice teased lightly, "that after all this time, you two would stop acting like newlyweds."

Ysa pulled away, brushing at her cheeks. Mishyael glanced up, scowling. "Don't you have ceremony planners to terrorize?" he said, although there was little heat in the comment.

Imena, Makhu's wife and Ysa's closest friend, stood in the doorway of the kitchen, three bolts of fabric in her arms. "Unlike the slugabeds in this household, my family was up before daybreak, and the preparations for the station dedication are well in hand. I’ve already checked with Fadil about the serving tables," she sniffed.

"Excuse me, Jzhallei," Kezhiya murmured, as she sidled past Imena, and began to sweep the kitchen.

Imena held up the brightly colored material, all woven with beautiful, intricate patterns, and grinned. "I came to take your wife's cloth to the market, since she has appointments today."

There was a knock on the door. Mishyael took his tea and went to answer it, instead of responding to Imena's sarcasm. He opened the door to a broadly grinning Makhu.

"Day's blessing, Old Man," the dark-skinned man greeted, then his eyes zeroed in on the cup in Mishyael's hand. "Ah, tea! Excellent!" he said as he reached for it.

Mishyael jerked the cup out of the younger yevarshedaht’s reach. “Get your wife to stay home in the morning and make you some tea before she goes out to tell the city how to run itself.”

Makhu stepped around Mishyael’s shoulder and reached for the teacup. “I’d rather she went and ran the city. Why do you think I do more cooking than she does?”

“Because you’re always out pounding around on horseback showing off to other dustheaded boys,” Mishyael said amiably as he ducked under Makhu’s arm and turned his back. He took a quick sip of his tea and crouched all the way down, teacup close to his chest and carefully level. “You should try going home while your dinner is still hot, you might find your wife’s cooking is much better when it hasn’t stood waiting for you for three hours.”

“Unlike you, I don’t need to run home to warm my creaky old bones by the oven the moment the sun goes down,” Makhu replied. He got his fingers around the teacup and put a knee to Mishyael’s collarbone, then startled at a tug to his thick ponytail.

“Don’t you have work to do, my tea-coveting love?” Imena tugged her husband’s braids again. “I seem to remember that there should be several small boys waiting for you to come and teach them the things men should know. Including, perhaps,” she said with a glance to Mishyael, “the preparation of a pot of strong morning tea to clear the night’s fog from the brain.”

Makhu straightened, and called to the kitchen, “Would you indulge me with a cup of tea, Ysa? I throw myself on your tender mercies, since I'm going to be sleeping with the goats for the next three days."

Ysa glided up beside Mishyael with a steaming cup in her hand and the puppy at her heels. She held the cup out to Makhu even as she exchanged an amused glance with Imena. "Try jewelry, Makhu. Preferably gold. She might let you sleep in the house."

Makhu turned to his wife with mock earnestness. “Would that work?”

“I can hardly be bought so easily, city boy,” Imena said in a fine imitation of offended hauteur. “When you can offer me an herb garden with climbing roses and a choir singing my praises, I’ll consider letting you make your own tea in my kitchen.”

"Did you have a reason for disturbing my day off, Makhu?" Mishyael asked before the morning could devolve entirely into farce.

Makhu downed his tea, then handed the cup to Ysa. "Ah. Yes. Elder Shan requests your presence at her home. Now." He bent to unfasten canine teeth from his trouser leg, then fend off a small dog convinced that the end of his sash was a tug toy.

Mishyael grimaced. "Whatever for?"

Makhu shrugged. "No idea, but I'd wear my good running sandals, were I you."

"And it’s not something you can handle?"

"No," Makhu said, "she specifically requested you." He bent to free himself of the puppy’s attentions to his sandals. “I didn’t know you’d decided you’re so decrepit you need a guard dog, Old Man. This one has the right attitude, but he seems a little small.”

Yet another knock sounded on the door, and Mishyael shot a questioning look at his wife as he reached out to answer it. He didn't see anyone at first, then glanced down. A pudgy, red-faced nksun gazed up at him expectantly. "What now?" Mishyael growled.

Yishai flinched and jumped back a step, and Mishyael sighed. "I apologize for being harsh. What is it you need?"

"Kamilah evicted her urike, Senior. He's still at her door, naked."

Both Mishyael and Makhu groaned.

"I never saw that coming," Ysa said derisively. She took the cup from Mishyael and headed back into the kitchen. Imena huffed and followed her.

He glanced at his empty hand, then at his wife's retreating back. He faced Makhu, and gestured at the boy. "Your duty, sovar." He smirked. "I have an urgent meeting with Elder Shan."

The puppy yipped and tugged at Mishyael's trouser-leg. He scowled down at the ball of fur, then a wicked grin split his face as he turned to the nksun. He opened his mouth, but was stopped when Ysa called from the kitchen, "Don't even think about it, husband. The dog stays."

"How does she do that?" Mishyael asked Makhu, who was stifling his laughter.

"She's a woman. She knows."

Mishyael let out another beleaguered sigh. "Maybe I'll get some tea at Elder Shan's." He waved Makhu out the door and followed.

"Pray she doesn't lace it with arsenic," Makhu quipped.

"That might be a blessing, the way this day has started."  
~`~`~`~  
Naomi threaded the narrow, twisting alleys as quickly as she could. She was already late for Temple, and she just knew Mahala was going to dump extra homework on her for this. It didn't matter that Naomi and her family had dinner at the Amestrian consulate last night, her teacher would still scold her in front of the whole class for her lack of foresight and punctuality.

"Well now, look at this." The voice was a rasp, too close, and Naomi jumped. Then she hissed at herself. She should have remembered and gone another way. Of course, now it was too late. Yoshafah was Ewan's uncle, and he hated Papa. Why, no one ever said. The man scowled at Naomi. "Are you a boy or a girl or something else entirely? Did the varisti witch birth a demon, to beat on our children and corrupt our Elders the further?"

Naomi’s temper rose, the edges of her vision going fuzzy and her stomach twisting itself in knots. "I'm no sivar, and neither is my mother, and anyone who says we are is going to regret it."

Yoshafah snorted. "If you were a true child of God you would know that truth can't be destroyed by the force of the sword, or the fist." His pale red eyes glittered from the shadow of his house, which always needed cleaning. His wife had been dead since before Naomi could remember, and she didn't blame the woman for dying young just to escape him.

Naomi drew herself up. "I know that story, and the one about the righteous weaver woman, too."

"No doubt you do. But hear this girl, as little of the truth of your mother you know, you know even less of your father. Ask him, before your kevarkal. Ask him who gave him the mark on his face. Ask him why he was exiled. Ask him how many men have died at his hand." Yoshafah's smile was predatory. "Ask him... because I'm not the only one who will ask at your Questioning."

Naomi knew her mouth was open and there were tears in her eyes, but somehow she couldn't regain control of her face, much less think of something to put Yoshafah in his place. She turned and fled.

She took a shortcut through the crowded textile district. She skirted around the huge steaming vats of cotton and linen being stirred by workers with large wooden paddles; ducked and darted around wet curtains of freshly dyed fabric in vivid shades of saffron and indigo and ochre. Her head and heart were pounding, and she couldn't quite stop the angry tears streaming down her face. Why would Yoshafah utter such hateful words about Papa? Why would he say Papa had been exiled? An exile couldn't become yevarshedaht, much less a diplomat.

Naomi came to a halt near the silk weaver's shop, and quickly ducked into a nearby alley. She cautiously peeked out of her hiding place. Jesu was talking to a Xingese silk merchant. Naomi sighed in relief; he hadn't spotted her, so he couldn't tattle on her for being late. Realization hit her, and she formed a devious thought. If she was late, and Jesu saw her, it was because he was late, too. And from his casual manner, it didn't look like he was in any hurry to attend his lessons, which meant...

She swiped at the tears on her face, and crept out of her hiding place to sneak up on her younger brother. She stopped just out of arm's reach, and said, "If Papa catches you skipping Temple, he's gonna make you walk the whole Sinner's Path."

Jesu nearly jumped out of his skin, wheeling around into a defensive stance. As soon as he realized it was his sister, he relaxed, then immediately scowled. "I won't be walking it by myself."

A rude retort died on Naomi's lips with the sudden excited babble of the crowd. Instead, she grabbed her brother by his sash, dragging him back into her hiding place. "Wha--" Jesu protested, but Naomi shushed him, then leaned and peeked around the wall.

The crowd was parting, opening a clear path for the Emperor of Xing, chatting animatedly to the small herd of vassals accompanying him. He was followed closely by what appeared to be a stack of parcels with short legs. Naomi gestured to Jesu to remain silent, and pointed. As the Emperor passed by, they got a clear view of Izyan, the Emperor's packages in his arms, piled over his head. In the wake of the imperial wave, a shadow passed overhead and Naomi glanced up in time to catch a glimpse of a black-clad leg and foot, and gold tassels disappearing over the roof of the silk weaver's shop.

When it was safe, both children darted out of hiding and ran through the alley in the opposite direction of their bratty little brother, laughing the whole way. They burst from the textile district, startling a young Bharati couple haggling with an old woman over the price of dried figs. As they passed a fruit vendor, they each snatched an apple, tossed a coin into the cart, and kept running until they reached the edge of the ruins. They settled in the shade of an eroded wall that still held the ghost of a circle carved into it, and ate their snacks in companionable silence.

"So why were you in the textile market?" Naomi asked, finally.

Jesu shrugged. "I was curious." He glanced sideways at his sister and grinned. "Did you know silk is made from worms?"

Naomi faced him, her brows pulled down in concern. "That wasn't what I meant. Why are you skipping Temple?"

"Oh." Jesu was quiet for a long time, picking the seeds from the apple's core. When he'd pried them all out, he threw the core as far as he could, then scattered the seeds near where he sat. He sighed. "I... I didn't want to take the tests again." He gazed at Naomi. "What were you doing there?"

Naomi yawned and pulled her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. "I was taking a shortcut." She buried her face in her arms.

"What?" Jesu asked.

She sighed and stared out at the ruins. "I ran into nasty old Yoshafah. He said something really mean."

"That old man is always saying mean things, swai. None of it is ever true."

Naomi gazed at her brother for a long moment, then stared out at the ruins again. "Yeah. If Yoshafah said his mother was a Queen of Aerugo I’d know she was probably a dirty bandit from Drachma.” They were quiet for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts. After awhile, Naomi wrinkled her nose and looked at her brother. "Worms?"

Jesu laughed. "Well, not actually the worms, but their cocoons. The silk farmers feed them mulberry leaves and when the worms make their cocoons, they throw them in boiling water to get the silk."

Naomi grimaced. "Yeah but... worms? Ick!" She shuddered. "And Momma is planning to make my dress out of that!" She grimaced and shuddered again. "I think I'll just go to my kevarkal naked."

Jesu looked horrified. "Please don't."

Naomi responded with a punch to her brother's arm. "Like I really would." She fell back against the wall and stared up into the cloudless sky. "I'll just tell Momma I want a dress of linen, instead." She winced, then. "Momma."

"What about her?" Jesu asked.

"She's gonna kill us when she finds out we skipped Temple."

Jesu gulped. "That's nothing compared to what Papa's gonna do." His eyes went wide, and he looked like he might faint. "Think we could just keep hiding out here until they get over being mad at us?"

"I think that would only make it worse," Naomi said, "because they'd worry about us, on top of being mad."

Jesu sighed and stood. "Then I guess we'd better go get it over with."

Naomi grasped his arm, shading her eyes as she gazed up at him. "Wait."

"We're already in trouble, Naomi. Why make it worse?" He sat back down anyway.

"Zhoji Jean told me something once," Naomi said with a grin, "about prisoners in Amestris who were about to die."

"Uh, this isn't doing anything to make me feel better, swai."

"Just listen. He told me that when they were about to die, they were granted a last request. Like, I dunno, a fancy dinner or something."

"And how is that gonna keep us from being killed? Or worse, becoming another of Emperor Ling's slaves?"

Naomi giggled and got to her feet, pulling her brother up with her. "It's not. But since we're in trouble already, let's go do something fun, before we have to walk the Sinner's Path, or be a slave for a week."

Jesu grinned. "Well, it is early."

"Right," Naomi said. "Let's go see Tiras and work with the horses."

Jesu groaned and rolled his eyes. "I thought you said something fun."

Naomi snapped straight and frowned. "That is fun."

"For you, maybe." Jesu grinned and shrugged. "You go play with the horses. I think I'll go back to talk to that silk merchant."  
~`~`~`~  
"I'm sure you remember that I protested your reinstatement." Shan tilted her head, rolling her eye toward the scarred yevarshedaht. She wore no patch over the remnants of her right eye this morning. She snipped a branch from the miniature tree on the bench in front of her. The bonzai had been imported from one of the island nations far to the south, at a price that equaled half a year’s pay for a senior yevarshedaht.

"Yes, Elder," Mishyael said. "I remember."

The morning sun barely pierced the shade of the Elder's lush garden courtyard. Many of the plants were in bloom, heavily perfuming the air. They required a lot of water, but her tribe indulged her wish for such a garden in deference to her age. Elder Shan’s grove was one of the best kept secrets in all the lands of Ishvarra.

She cast a measuring gaze over the top of the bonzai, then waved the yevarshedaht to his knees with the hand holding the clippers. "I witnessed the murder of those Amestrian doctors, and I led the funeral songs for the woman who gave birth to you and the man who called you son. Your brother was not the only young man we laid to rest, but there should have been another sword raised against the soldiers. I have not forgotten that.”

Mishyael shifted, but kept respectfully silent.

After a long moment, she nodded. "Nevertheless, you finally heard the voice of God over the clamor of your hatred and directed your justified anger toward the target She chose." She returned to trimming her miniature tree. "And you still will not attempt to excuse your actions. For that, I offer a grudging respect."

"Yols hatemzherit," he murmured, as he put his hands down to the paving stones and bowed his head.

"Ye'en!" she snapped.

A muscle in his cheek twitched at the insult, but he remained bowed.

"Do not, for one moment, think that I have changed my mind," she said. Her polished cedar cane tapped against the clay tiles as she approached him. She rested her hand on the back of his head. “Nor think that I am the greatest threat to you and your foreign wife.”

"Forgive my impertinence," he said through gritted teeth.

"There has been talk," she said. "Some are saying that Scar has returned." She brought him upright again with a dry, cool palm on the scarring that spread across his forehead and down over his nose and eyes to his cheeks.

"That talk always starts when Ishvarun clash with the Amestrians," he said as he sat back on his heels.

"Yes. I read the reports Miles paiyid Henbredg sent.” She returned to the bench, and trimmed another branch from the tiny tree. “You resorted to alchemy to stop the mob."

"A moment of weakness, Elder. Forgive me."

She waved her clippers dismissively. "That has already been addressed by the triumvirate. You prevented death rather than causing it, and the attackers drew first, so the cause was sufficient." Her single red eye glittered over the top of the small tree. "Do not allow that to become a habit." She came around the edge of the table, then put the closed blades of the clippers under his chin and nudged him up to his feet. "You are an exceptional yevarshedaht, I expect you to use the skills Ishvarra gave you to resolve any more conflicts."

"Yes, Madam."

She laid the clippers aside, and gathered the branches and leaves from the table. "I understand you had a confrontation with the smith's apprentice, Biyal?" she said as she took the waste, and hitched her way to the compost.

"A minor incident. Nothing more."

She tossed the litter into the moldering heap, and shuffled back to him, her cane tapping a light tattoo on the tiles. When she was nearly toe-to-toe with him, she glared up at him. "There is more to it than a 'minor incident'."

Mishyael straightened and frowned down at her. "I don't understand."

She took his arm. "Walk with me. Let me show you my little Paradise."

Mishyael obeyed. Elder Shan stopped at a raised bed of aromatic vines, and pointed at them. "Mint. It's a very useful plant, yes? The tea you can make with it can soothe a nervous stomach, and it's delicious baked in some pastries." She faced him. "But mint has to be planted in a confined space, else it'll take over the whole garden."

He remained respectfully quiet.

Again, she nodded, seemingly satisfied. "I charge you with finding out who Biyal associates with. Report only to me."

"Madam?"

She scowled. "I am trusting you, yevarshedaht." With that, she dismissed him.  
~`~`~`~  
Naomi trotted down the wide stairs and under one of the arched structures that wound around Xerxes. The aqueducts carried water to everyone in the city and separated the fancier houses and the temple, from the market. Shadows at the edge of the tall structure’s shade darted by, and she twisted around. Glancing up and shading her eyes from the sun, she watched a line of ten nksun run past. Each of them dropped down onto a nearby roof and rolled back up to his feet. They then jumped from roof to roof, down the hill and into the heart of the market. Naomi watched them until they disappeared from her sight, then she turned and continued down the stairs.

She side-stepped an old woman with a basket of vegetables, then narrowly dodged a running ungwaiyar with an armful of scrolls. She stopped to watch an elegant Xingese woman stroll past. She was dressed in a long green-blue gown with wide sleeves and a long, embroidered sash. Her hair was more elaborate than any Ishvarun’s Naomi had ever seen outside of a wedding. It was held up by combs and picks in a strange, looping design. She wore a headdress which sparkled gold, strings of glass beads that twinkled in the sunlight, and tassels that gracefully swayed with each of the woman’s small steps. She was followed by three other Xingese women and two men, but none of them were dressed as fancy as she was. Naomi was sure the woman was someone important, but she’d never seen her before.

After they’d passed, Naomi continued on, weaving around people haggling over spices, and a pair of Bharati men chatting in their own language at the incense seller. Over the murmuring of shoppers, Naomi heard shouts and the sing-song voices of merchants beckoning buyers to their tents and shops. As she neared the broad, open space of the pavilion that Shifa’s tea shop overlooked, she heard a rhythmic bang-bang-bang. She glanced up and saw Tengfei on his hands and knees on top of the wooden awning. He was swinging a hammer, pounding nails into a square of wood near the lower edge. Naomi could remember when Shifa and her Xingese husband had replaced the patched canvas awning with a stronger, wooden one. Now the wooden one was covered in patches, and sooner or later Shifa and Tengfei would replace that one.

As the Xingese tea merchant drove another nail into the square of wood, the ten nksun ran by on the ledge of the roof, their arms out for balance. One of them stumbled and fell down onto the wooden awning. Tengfei calmly reached out and snagged the boy by his ankle as he rolled by. Naomi giggled as Shifa emerged from the shade, teapot in hand, and glanced up at the boy, who was hanging upside-down over the edge of the scalloped trim. The boy grinned and waved, then reached under the trim to grasp a support bar. Tengfei let go of the boy’s ankle, and the nksun gracefully flipped and dropped to the ground. He bowed respectfully to Shifa, then darted into the narrow walkway between the tea shop and the noodle cook, and zig-zagged up the walls to the roof. He shouted for his classmates to wait, then took off after them. Shifa shook her head, then ducked back under the awning. She stopped at a table with two women, and filled their cups.

The awning sloped low, and Naomi couldn‘t see the back of the women’s heads until she was almost right next to them. Her heart skipped a beat, and she slipped into the alley the nksun had run into. She peeked around the corner, and huffed in relief. Momma and Jzhallei Riza hadn’t seen her. They were sitting close together, looking at pictures.

Momma picked up her napkin and dabbed at her eyes, and Naomi gasped. Momma was crying, and Jzhallei Riza was rubbing her back to comfort her.

Naomi grit her teeth and clenched her fist as Momma put the pictures in an envelope and hid them in her robes. Naomi made a vow she would find them, and find out who and what made Momma cry. She took a deep breath and escaped down the alley, on toward the stables.  
~`~`~`~  
Sango knew the moment the caravan had crossed the ancient border of Xerxes by the twitch of Akilah's ears. But the Ishvarun-bred horse didn't balk; he was too well-trained and smarter than the rest of the humans in the train.

"Superstitious nonsense, my friend," Sango said, as he rubbed a dark hand along the animal's regal neck. The horse's coat gleamed in the sun like polished copper, and the white in his forelock sparked like quicksilver as he nodded and whuffed softly. Akilah was a badge of the favor of the Queen of Zamaradi Parimba, gifted to Sango when he was promoted to the Queen's Master of the North, and he was a fine mount.

The train he led was a different matter. The men were all from the lower clans, uneducated and superstitious. They’d started praying and waving their hands in signs to ward off evil spirits the moment they’d crossed the old border.

Usually it was easy to ignore the rapidly spoken charms of the lower clans' traders. This trip, however, had been plagued by the stench of superstition from the moment they left the Queen’s lands. Even the camels seemed nervous, and Akilah’s ears never stilled. "Fools," Sango hissed in disgust. He'd traveled this road many times, and he’d never met with any restless spirits.

He reined in Akilah, and waved the rest of the train to a halt. The praying became more fervent and the camels groaned in protest, but Sango ignored them, peering through his telescope off to the east. The other caravan wasn't far, now. Maybe an hour.

Nuru, his second, and the one who interacted with the lowborn, set his camel and dismounted. He approached Sango, crossed his arms over his chest with a thump, and barely inclined his head, as though greeting another of the brass-earring class rather than a gold-bracelet man. The sleeves of his black robe fell back to reveal the stump where his right hand had once been. Nuru had been one of the Queen's advisers, with all the wealth and privilege that came with the station, before he was caught stealing from the coffers, punished, and made into a trader’s steward. "The others are concerned, Captain," Nuru said.

"The others are behaving like frightened old women. There are no ghosts on this road." Sango pointed with his scope off to the east. "Another caravan is headed this way. We'll join them for the rest of the journey to Xerxes."

"But the schedule--"

"We are ahead of schedule. You and those superstitious fools keep pushing the camels to run ahead of your ghosts. They will welcome the chance to rest. We can wait an hour. The added numbers will provide protection from the real dangers of this road."

"Yes, sir," Nuru said, reluctantly. He turned and headed back to his camel, ordering the rest of the train to set their own and wait.

Before he made it ten feet, Sango added, "I will not forget your disrespect, Nuru. But for now, I need a camel driver."

Nuru bowed properly this time. "Understood."  
~`~`~`~  
Between keeping an eye on Kamilah and her urike (she finally relented and threw a robe out the door at him, but she still refused to let him back into her house), witnessing two kids skipping Temple (there was nothing Abisha needed to do about that; their father would hear about it soon enough), the ruckus that always seemed to follow the Emperor of Xing (including the Emperor's shadow guard gliding along the rooftops, as graceful as any yevarshedaht), and watching the lone rider dismount to walk his weary horse the rest of the way to the city, it had been an interesting, although uneventful, morning.

Abisha turned his attention back to the caravans from the south and east. Both were making good time, although the one from the south had appeared to be moving faster than was typical for a train of that size. He was able to make out more detail now, and counted twenty camels, but only six riders in black robes. Aerugan, then. There was also one horse and rider, leading them. Abisha assumed he was the captain; likely from the house of one of the Five Queens.

The eastern caravan was on a direct intersection path to the southern one. The number of riders compared to the number of camels made the southern train unlikely suspects for bandits, but very little was out of the question in the open desert of the traders' roads.

It was time to report the caravans’ approach. Abisha let his field glasses hang around his neck and turned to Yishai. The boy slowly looked up from the book he was studying, and sagged. "Again?"

"You need to build your stamina if you're going to become a yevarshedaht," Abisha said as he jerked his head in the direction of the long, winding, tower stairs.

The boy scowled and came to his feet. "I'm not going to live that long, under your command," he said as he headed down the stairs once again.  
~`~`~`~  
Naomi strode through the long stable, waving at Nizhyim, who was leaning on the gate to Kharyvi's stall. This was the mare's first birth, and the most experienced of Tiras' apprentices was keeping a careful watch on her. Fifteen year-old Ghani, the youngest of the apprentices, was pitching straw into a freshly-cleaned stable further down, Qamarah, the first female Tiras had ever taken as an apprentice, was in the storage room organizing the supplies. Naomi liked Qamarah; she didn't make puppy-eyes at the boys in town, and wasn't afraid to get dirty, like most of the silly girls in Xerxes. She glanced up from the small blackboard she was making a list on, and smiled, as Naomi poked her head in the door of the storage room. "Day's blessing, Naomi. You're here early today."

Naomi grinned. "Where's Zhoji Tiras?"

Qamarah pointed with her chalk. "Down to Yshara's stall."

"Hatemzher," Naomi said, and turned to dash down the aisle, nearly running over Zihyar, the kahanyin, who was carrying Iuzad's dress saddle out of the tackroom. "Oops! Sorry, Zhoji", she said. She tilted her head curiously. "Is something wrong with Iuzad's saddle?"

"Nope," Zihyar said, as he shifted the saddle in his grip. "Tiras just wants to make sure it's in top form for the dedication ceremony."

Naomi's eyes widened and her grin spread.

Tiras was leading his prized mare, Yshara, and her four month-old foal, Sarab, out of their stall, and his expression lightened when he saw Naomi. "Your timing is perfect. Come and help me; the little one needs grooming."

Tiras was a master of horses. He'd arrived in Xerxes twelve years ago riding Iuzad, the long-legged stallion, and leading three mares. They were all that was left of his village and his tribe's herd of Golden Horses, the graceful and intelligent horses of Ishvar. Naomi hadn't been the only one to fall in love with the animals, but she was one of the few who was willing to work as well as ride. A Golden Horse of Ishvar would gleam like gold, or sometimes copper or steel, if she was healthy and properly groomed. "Properly groomed", by Tiras' standards, meant "nose to tail, ears to hooves". He would make allowances for the restiveness of foals and the tempers of stallions, but not the inattention or weariness of humans.

"There. That's enough, let go." Tiras patted Sarab’s short neck as Naomi let go of her right rear hoof. "She's learning to trust and to balance herself. Now the brush, slow and gentle."

Naomi brushed the baby's sides, letting Tiras' calm voice soothe her. When that part was done, she took the soft cloth hanging on the rail and wiped down the foal’s tender legs.

"Good. Now for the last hoof." He put a hand to the filly's left shoulder as Naomi bent to pick up the tiny right front hoof. "Not high, I know your back's tired but she's little and wobbly. Better."

With Sarab's grooming lesson finished, Tiras sent Naomi into the barn for Yshara's saddle and bridle, then waited while the foal frisked and Naomi tacked the mare. He gave the girl a leg up with his usual phrase. "Up you get, lekhaya." He walked alongside her until the little one trotted up beside her mother, following and nudging her. He put a hand on the filly's back without comment, left it there for a few steps while her ears twitched, then took his hand away. "I'm going to put her on the halter. Wait for a moment."

Sarab's lesson in following where she was led, with her mother on one side and Tiras on the other, was short. Babies tired easily. Momma said that was why Zhevah was sometimes fussy. Naomi didn't quite believe it. The foal ran around and was "studying"; Zhevah never did anything but wriggle and cry. She couldn't even walk, so what did she have to make her tired?

"All right, Naomi, you'd best tighten your sandals and run home, if you're to get to afternoon Temple clean."

"I can wait a little longer," Naomi said, though she slid off the horse's back and let the old man take Yshara's reins.

"Ishvarra might not mind, but your father will dunk you in the public fountain if you try to cross the temple threshold smelling of horse." Tiras briskly swung up onto the mare's back in a soft, fluid motion. "Hold the little one while I take her mother through the gate, please. Yshara needs to stretch her legs and remember her steps."

"I can wash fast." Naomi let Sarab nibble her sleeve as Tiras rode the mare through the gate into the pasture beyond the paddock.

"Stop her chewing on you, minya, she has to learn her manners now." Tiras nudged Yshara with a heel and sent her into a slow, easy canter.

”I don’t see why I have to go when you and your other apprentices don’t,” Naomi said crossly.

Tiras chuckled even as Yshara executed a flawless flying lead change and cantered toward her foal and the girl, working without any apparent cue from her grizzled rider. "I worship Ishvarra by caring for these creatures She's gifted us with." As the mare trotted closer to Naomi, he slowed her and leaned down. "And I don't have a father who is a senior yevarshedaht."

"I'm almost an adult," Naomi complained, "I should be able to decide whether to go to Temple or do something useful with my time."

"This is true," Tiras said, "and you’ll have that decision to make soon, with the kevarkhal. But being an adult also means accepting the consequences of your decisions."

Naomi sighed. "I'm probably going to have to walk the Sinner's Path tomorrow, anyway."

Tiras chuckled. "The rope is around the lion’s neck? Well enough. The decision is yours."  
~`~`~`~  
Alphonse Elric knelt in the aisle of the kennels with one end of a rag in his hand. The other end was held in the jaws of a small, brown puppy, who was yanking on it with all her might. Her tiny, thin growls echoed off the clay tiles and walls. "You're the last one," Alphonse said, as he gave a gentle tug on the rag. "I'll bet you're lonely in here all by yourself." The rag came loose from the puppy's jaws. She yipped and pounced it again, determined to win the tug of war. Alphonse laughed softly. "I suppose I could take you home with me." He let the puppy yank the rag from his hand, and chuckled when she attacked it and shook it with enthusiasm. "Mei might get mad at me if I bring another stray home, though," he said, ruefully.

"Doctor Alphonse!" Ysanje, his fifteen year old assistant, called from the waiting room.

"Sounds like an emergency," Alphonse said to the puppy. He picked up the small dog and placed her in her kennel, then latched the gate. "I'll come back and play with you some more later," he said as he stood and left the kennel area.

He heard the incoherent sobbing before he reached the small waiting room, but it didn't prepare him for the sight. The little girl couldn't have been more than six, but she was covered in blood and her face was buried in the neck of a dog that might've been white, were it not for the red stains smeared over his short coat. Ysanje was kneeling next to the little girl, doing her best to calm her. “Doctor Alphonse is the best, minya,” his apprentice told the child. “Your brave friend will be fine, you’ll see.”

The dog struggled to stand as Alphonse approached, but his torn haunches gave way, and he collapsed with his head in the girl's lap. There was pain in his eyes and tension around his floppy, torn ears, but he didn’t make a sound.

"Hey there," Alphonse said softly as he slowly knelt and offered the back of his hand for the dog to sniff. "What happened, hmm?"

“Ewan said I was an ugly stupid baby with an ugly stupid dog and I tried to hit him but he hit me instead and I ran away and Kenbi came with me and I was throwing a ball as hard as I could and he was bringing it back for me when a big mean dog came and tried to bite me but Kenbi jumped on him--” the child hiccuped, then took a deep breath and rushed on, the words tumbling over each other, “and the mean dog bit Kenbi all over and then a big boy came and he threw stones with his sling until the mean dog ran away, and he carried Kenbi most of the way but he didn’t want to get in trouble and Kenbi can’t get up!” The child buried her face in her pet’s furry neck, and he wagged his tail a little. That was a good sign; an active tail meant there probably wasn’t crippling spinal damage.

Alphonse settled down beside the little girl and put a hand on her shoulder. “Kenbi’s a very brave dog, and you’re a very smart girl to have brought him here. Can you sit up for me, so I can look at him?” He threw a glance to Ysanje, and she nodded, slipping an arm around the little girl’s shoulders. Alphonse’s apprentice had been studying with him for almost two years; she knew the necessity of comforting owners as well as tending their pets. She would work the child’s name, and the names of her parents, out of her while Alphonse handled Kenbi’s injuries.

There were several shallow wounds that he could repair easily, but the deep gash on the dog's rear shank was going to need more work if he was going to save the leg. At least the little girl didn't appear injured.

"Kenbi saved me," she said, and buried her face in the dog's fur again. When she looked up at Alphonse, her eyes were beseeching. "Please, Doctor. Please fix him!"

Alphonse smiled and ran a hand over the dog's heaving side. "I'll do my best, I promise." He gazed down at the dog. "I'm sorry, Kenbi, but it's going to hurt a little when I pick you up." Alphonse cradled the dog in his arms and winced when Kenbi yelped and whimpered as he rose to his feet. He gazed down at the little girl. "Can you do me a favor? Go home to your mom and dad; they're probably worrying about you. Tell them what a hero Kenbi is, okay? And say a prayer to help him get better." He smiled. "You can come see him tomorrow. He'll want you to visit him while he heals." He faced Ysanje. "There are size small scrubs in the supply closet. They'll be big on her, but it'll be better than having her walk across town in bloody clothes. Make sure she gets home safely."

Ysanje nodded and helped the little girl to her feet. “Come along, minya, let’s get you cleaned up, then we can go tell your momma and papa what a brave dog Kenbi is, okay?” She wrapped an arm around the child’s shoulders and led her to the back of the office.  
~`~`~`~  
By the time Yishai returned, Abisha was able to make out the lead animals in the east train. Elephants. Three of them. Abisha could remember seeing only one in his life.

“What do you see, Watchman?” The voice was a surprise. It was usually Yarak who came to see what the watch had to report.

"We have Aerugans coming from the south, Senior." Abisha handed the field glasses to Mishyael, the senior yevarshedaht. He gestured toward the second caravan. "And a train from the east. They're being led by elephants."

Mishyael peered through the binoculars and turned the wheel to focus. "Bharati," he informed the watchman. "They'll meet up with the Aerugans within the hour."

"Should we alert the guard?"

Mishyael gazed toward the south. "It's unlikely the Aerugans are robbers; too many laden camels. They're waiting on the Bharati to combine forces the rest of the way." He swept back to the eastern train and his lips pulled up into a ghost of a smile. "Although I suspect that the arrival of that caravan will cause a stir." He lowered the glasses. "We'll err on the side of caution." He nodded at the young nksun. "Find Makhu and tell him to gather his ungwaiyar and ride out to the eastern caravanserai."

"It'll be dark before they get there," the boy protested.

Mishyael laid his hand on the boy's head. "Ishvarun horses are as sure-footed in the dark as they are in the day, ‘yirhi, and Makhu knows the path well. He'll arrive when the trains do, and the night will be quiet."

Yishai bowed and ran off.

"The Bharati caravan is friendly, but keep watch all the same," Mishyael said as he returned the glasses to Abisha. "Trouble always seems to follow that one." He gave a curt bow and left the watchman to puzzle over the cryptic comment.

Abisha brought the glasses up and focused on the caravan. He could pick out the elephants and the camels through the heat shimmer now, but the riders were all wearing sand cloaks and were thus indistinguishable from each other. The riders on the back of the second elephant, and the smaller one behind her, were interesting and unexpected, though. The smallest elephant carried a youth, that much was clear, but it was the adult rider in front of him that caught Abisha's attention. His face was shadowed by a hood, like the others, but a rope of braided gold draped over his shoulder.


	5. Uzrahji Minzha

“Why are they wearing black, Dad?” Theo frowned as Vasupati, the caravan master, talked with the captain of the camel train from the south. “Black only draws in the heat, and it’s depressing.”

“It’s a religious thing,” Edward Elric shrugged. “They think wearing white is a death omen, because ghosts are white.”

“But there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Theo, astride Bindi’s neck, rubbed the elephant’s tough skin. The elephants’ services as mounts had cost three times those of a camel or a caravan horse, but Theo had developed a love of elephants upon his arrival in Bharat, and Edward’s work there had left him with money to spare. Besides, Bindi, Aishi, and Chandra smelled better than any camel he’d ever met.

“No, but people make up all kinds of crazy stuff to make sense of whatever they don’t understand.” Edward glanced at Vasupati, who waved to get his attention, then beckoned. “Looks like we’re getting going. Tell Bindi to move along, kid.” He tapped Aishi, his elephant and Bindi’s mother, on the back of her right ear and got her moving.

“Agey brahna!” Theo chirped happily, nudging the animal’s right ear with his foot. Bindi blew through her trunk, flapping her ears as she started off toward Vasupati. The caravan master put a foot onto his elephant’s lowered trunk and rose gracefully to sit on Chandra’s neck.

“This is Sango, the master of the caravan from the south,” Vasupati said in thickly-accented Amestrian. “He serves the Queen of the Zamaradi Parimba region.”

The caravan master threw back his hood and grinned up at Edward and Theo from the back of his copper-coated horse. “Uslama bambarani siknema,” he said in the rapid syllables of the northern jungle lands.

“Kushafeyri ramoja,” Edward answered. He lowered his hood. “Put your hood down, Theo, it’s good manners to show your face to an Aerugan the first time you meet. Vasupati, would you tell Sango my name and Theo’s? My Aerugan’s so rusty I’m afraid I’ll insult his mother or something.” He looked down again and met the other caravan master’s eyes.

The Aerugan’s smile vanished.  
~`~`~`~  
There was a scream and a bang from the stables, causing Naomi to jump and the foal to startle and hurry back to the fence to squeal for her mother. An instant later, Nizhyim charged out. "Master!"

Tiras reined in Yshara near the gate, and quickly dismounted. "Kharyvi?"

"Yes, Master. She strains, but the foal doesn’t move. Now she won’t get up." Nizhyim was about twenty and usually cheerful, but his skin showed an unhealthy gray and there was no trace of his usual smile on his face.

Tiras swung open the gate, and led Yshara into the paddock. As he passed Naomi, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "You stay out here and groom Yshara, it'll keep her calm." To Nizhyim, he said, "Run and fetch Doctor Alphonse. I'll try to settle the mare."

Naomi gulped, but didn't argue with the horse master. A horse in pain was a dangerous animal. She’d seen it herself when Tiras had tried to put ointment on Iuzad’s infected ear. The stallion had knocked out two of the horse master’s teeth and cracked his ribs badly enough that Tiras had had to content himself with sitting on a stool for more than a week while his apprentices did all the work. He’d even needed to send Nizhyim to bring Doctor Alphonse to calm Iuzad with foreign drugs so the infection in the stallion’s ear could be treated. “Never forget that, lekhaya,” Tiras had told her, watching the varisti animal doctor lance the boil on the drugged horse. “A horse may carry you and do what you ask of him for twenty years, but startle him or cause him pain, and his hooves may be the end of you.”

Naomi gave Yshara a gentle pat on her neck, and began to remove the horse’s tack. Once she had the saddle and blanket hung on the fence-rail, she ran a hand along the mare’s side and came around behind her. She selected a curry comb from the pail of grooming tools hanging on a peg by the gate, and began to rake it over the horse's coat, putting her shoulder into the work to relax Yshara’s muscles as well as clean her. While she worked, Naomi murmured softly in the temple tongue, letting the words follow the circular sweeps of the curry. “Ishvarra, Dyenes Yeta, [You who pours out the water of the world...”]

Her prayer stalled as she saw Qamarah and Ghani lead five saddled horses out, and tether them to the paddock fence. One of the horses was Yitamar, Makhu's stallion. Naomi watched from around Yishara's chest as the senior yevarshedaht and his four ungwaiyar mounted up, then rode out of Xerxes.

As soon as the party was on its way, Ghani returned to the stable, but Qamarah remained, watching as the riders reappeared at the base of the hill, and galloped away down the road. Lyron, one of the ungwaiyar who rode with Makhu, was Qamarah's older brother, and the girl looked worried.

Naomi came up beside her, and watched as the group became nothing but an indistinguishable spot in the distance. "Dren said there were two caravans coming together," Qamarah said, softly. She faced Naomi and smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "They will reach the caravanserai in time to keep the peace."

"They'll return home whole and singing." Naomi quoted the ancient wish that was always said when warriors were headed into a potentially dangerous situation.

"From your mouth to Ishvarra's ear," the other girl responded. She started back to the stable, but paused and shaded her eyes as she stared at the road. An instant later, Naomi heard the slow clop-clop-clop of hooves, and frowned. A single man in a sand cloak appeared over the hill, leading a weary horse. As Qamarah went to meet the rider, Naomi noticed his dark, round glasses and his funny sideburns, and something tugged at her memory. Then, with a start, she remembered who he was. The last time he had been to her home for dinner with Papa and Momma, Naomi was only six. She had been fascinated by his funny accent and the heavy blue jacket with brass buttons and stars on his shoulder.

Miles payid Henbredg was the only Ishvarun Naomi had ever seen who belonged to the Amestrian military.  
~`~`~`~  
Alphonse finished taping the gauze over the dog's left hind shank. "There you go, Kenbi," he said as he smoothed the fur on the dog’s head. It was one of the few places not stained with blood. The dog was coming out of the anesthetic and groggily thumped his tail twice in response to Alphonse's gentle stroking. “You did a brave thing today.”

He was a lucky dog. The boy had had the presence of mind to bring the dog and his tearful little owner to the “varisti animal doctor” in the Foreign District. Ishbalans respected their dogs, but unless the animal was a particularly prized hunting or herding dog, his master would sooner euthanize him than bring him to Alphonse for treatment that could be both expensive and possibly sacrilegious. Not that he charged much for his services on dogs. Most of his income came from treating the animals Ishbalans would willingly call for help with: goats, cows, and horses.

Alphonse lay his hand on the dog's side, closed his eyes and listened a moment. He'd already sealed the wounds, but the new skin was still fragile and could easily tear. The shallow scrapes and cuts were already well on their way to healing, and the deeper gashes were knitting. Kenbi would keep all four of his legs, and would be ready to leave the clinic in a few days.

He cradled the dog in his arms, and carried him from the exam room to the kennels. He passed by the waiting room, noting that it was empty; Ysanje was still gone. Alphonse glanced at the clock that hung on the wall over the reception desk, and realized it was later than he'd thought. Ysanje had probably gone straight to the temple after taking Kenbi’s little owner home. His apprentice was devoted to learning veterinary medicine and surgery, but she was also devoted to her faith; to the point of pinning up strips of paper covered in ornate Ishbalan calligraphy all over the clinic and insisting that a daily prayer to Ishballa made Alphonse’s skills sharper, medicines and herbs more efficacious, and the animals’ chances of recovery better.

She worked hard and asked intelligent questions, though, and she didn’t balk when assisting Alphonse in minor surgeries. Some of his techniques, however, were better not demonstrated to his apprentice. Alphonse was fairly sure Ysange knew how he knew so accurately what was wrong inside an animal, and as long as he didn’t push it in her face, she wouldn’t denounce him for using alkahestry within the city.

He wasn’t surprised that she’d prepared the kennel before she left. Kenbi would have a soft bed and a long prayer slip covered with the graceful characters of the sacred version of Ishbalan while he recovered. Alphonse laid the still groggy dog on the padding, and petted him again. "You'll be out of here soon," he said, "then you can go back to protecting your little girl."

”Still working miracles, Alphonse?” The voice spoke Amestrian and sounded a little amused. “One of these days you’ll get caught using alchemy, and then you're going to lose a lot of business.”

Alphonse grinned as he shut the kennel gate and rose smoothly to his feet. "It's alkahestry, and the people here tolerate it a little better than alchemy." He turned and his grin grew wider. "Hello, Emissary, Miss Riza," he greeted as he approached Roy and Riza Mustang with his hands out.

Roy reached out and found the younger man's hands, clasping them in his own. "Alphonse," he chided, "it's Roy. You know that."

"It never hurts to be polite," Alphonse responded. "How are you both? It's been... two years?"

"Oh, accusations, intrigue, games and drama... and when I’m not with my daughters there’s politics, too," Roy said with teasing carelessness. "I won't bore you with the details. Word has gotten all the way back to me of the wonderful veterinarian in Xerxes."

Alphonse chuckled as he gazed at his empty waiting room. "Yeah. Business is booming."

The door to the office burst open and a young Ishbalan blustered in, panting and wild-eyed. One of Tiras' apprentices. “Doctor Alphonse!”

"What is it, Nizhyim?"

"It's Kharyvi," the young apprentice gasped out. “She strains but the foal doesn’t come.”

Alphonse nodded. "I'll get my bag." To Roy and Riza, he said, "Sorry. The mare’s having trouble. I'll catch up with you later."

The horsemaster’s apprentice followed Alphonse’s gaze, and actually took in the identities of the other visitors in the clinic. “M-my apologies, Emissary,” he faltered.

“[You are forgiven],” Roy said with some dignity. “Al, I’d like to talk to you, sooner rather than later.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Alphonse asked as he started for the supply closet.

“As soon as your practice permits.” Roy lifted an eyebrow toward Nizhyim.

“I’ll ask Ysange to watch the clinic after the morning rush,” Alphonse answered from the depths of the clinic. “I’ve really got to lock up and get to the stables, though, or we could lose the mare as well as the foal.”

“Go save some lives, then.” Mustang allowed himself to be escorted out, then he and Riza strolled back toward the consulate while Alphonse jogged after the nervous Nizhyim.  
~`~`~`~  
The texts said that good work becomes a prayer. That while the body worked the soul was free to listen to God. Grooming was that kind of work for Naomi. It wasn't difficult to lose track of time amid the soft chuffing and whickering and the sounds of tails swishing and sweeping. All was quiet inside the stables, now that Doctor Alphonse was there to help deliver Kharyvi's foal. It wasn't until she heard the light scratch of sandals over hard-packed clay and straw from around the stable that any sense of time passing struck her.

A light, friendly voice called, "You know you missed Temple, right?"

The calm shattered. "God knows everything and She can be anywhere She wants to be, so if She wants me She'll find me," Naomi answered petulantly, as she bent over the hoof she held cupped in her hand. From her vantage point, all she saw was a pair of well-worn sandals on dark brown feet pass by the other side of the mare, but she knew who it was.

"So will your father, and he'll make you walk the whole Sinner's Path for skipping." The speaker grunted a little, hoisting himself up onto the top rail of the fence surrounding the paddock.

"If you only came to scold me you can go right back home, Asher." Naomi scowled around the mare's chest at the older boy.

He rolled his eyes. "I came to find out if you're all right. I heard you got into a fight with Ewan yesterday, then I ran into Jesu a little while ago. He told me Yoshafah made you cry this morning. But if you'd rather roast yourself in your temper, I'll go."

"No... no, stay." Naomi sighed. She untethered Yshara, and led her to the pasture gate. Asher jumped down and opened the gate from the other side, while Naomi let the mare and her foal loose into the pasture.

As soon as the gate was secure, Asher leaned toward her, his eyes narrowed as he peered at the bruising under her eye, then smirked. “Ewan actually managed to punch you? Did he cheat and get a couple of his friends to pin you down?” he asked as he returned to his perch on the top rail.

Naomi leaned on the fence beside him. “I was watching his right. I forgot he’s left-handed.”

Asher huffed a small laugh. “He must’ve really made you mad, then.”

Naomi sighed and rested her chin on her arms. “Yeah.”

The afternoon sun caught the streak of white in Asher’s hair as he looked past the gamboling horses in the pasture, thinking his own thoughts. That was one of the things that made him a good friend; if he didn't have anything to say, he didn't say anything. He didn't chatter like the stupid girls, and he wasn't impressed by their dumb games, either.

Naomi followed Asher's gaze. A crumbling old tower amid the not-yet-rebuilt section of Xerxes stood easily three times the height of most houses, and it looked out over ruins that stretched almost to the horizon. The city had been huge and important, once.

"I wish I could see it the way it was before God ruined it."

"So do I," Asher answered. "You'd think God could have showed the Old People that they were only humans without destroying a city like this."

That was another good thing about Asher. He thought about the same outrageous and sometimes sacrilegious things Naomi did, and he didn’t see anything wrong with thinking them.

"We probably won't get to see it all rebuilt, either," Naomi said wistfully. "We're stuck in between."

"I wouldn't say we're stuck between," her friend murmured. "We've been right here at the beginning. Our parents were refugees who came here to hide. They brought life back to this old city, but we're the ones who are going to make it great again."

"We could talk until we turned to dry dust, but no one would ever listen to us. I don't think they'd listen even if we were a hundred years old." She scowled. "Not as long as we're the varisti-blooded children of the yevarshedaht."

"I don't believe that," Asher said, as Yshara came up and nudged him. He reached out to give her a light scratch along her neck, and the sleeve of his tunic fell back, exposing two bands of tattoos wound around his wrist and forearm.

"All right, so maybe they'll listen to you eventually. There are more people from the southern tribes here now, so it's not so strange." Naomi traced Asher's tattoos with her eyes while the older boy petted Yshara. Like his father Makhu, Asher's skin was much darker than most Ishvarun, so the heritage tattoos almost blended in until you got close enough.

"Your mother isn't varisti any more than my father is a slaver, and even if they were, 'it is not for you to condemn the child for her birth,'" Asher told her, his tone going a bit flat. He'd used that phrase from The Book of Bitter Water for as long as Naomi could remember. She preferred to use her fists when someone called her "half-breed" or even "foreigner" behind her father's back.

"Ewan called her sivar, and he's not the only one who does." Naomi folded her bare, unmarked arms along the top rail of the fence and scowled, then whispered, "And Yoshafah said Papa had been in exile."

"Ewan's stupid, and he listens to stupid people complain," Asher said, giving Yshara's neck a final pat as the horse moved off. "In a few days, you'll be a woman and he'll still be a bully who gets beat up by girls."

Naomi huffed a little, then her expression lightened as Sarab kicked up her heels and took off at a gangly run. "And after that, I can come here instead of going to Temple every morning and evening."

“That’s as may be,” Tiras’ voice said from behind them, "but right now Doctor Alphonse and Kharyvi need your help, minya." Tiras nodded at Asher, and laid a hand on Naomi’s shoulder. "Your hands are small and you can reach into Kharyvi to help turn the foal’s head." Naomi's jaw dropped, and she felt the blood drain from her face. Tiras almost laughed. "You're not going to faint, are you?"

She clamped her mouth shut with a snap, took a deep breath and straightened. "I'm not some sissy girl, Zhoji Tiras."

This time, the horse master did laugh, and patted her shoulder. "That's my lekhaya." He nudged her toward the stables. "Go, give the varisti animal doctor the hands he needs."

Naomi darted into the stables. Asher watched until she disappeared, then shot a questioning glance at Tiras. "Why aren't any of the other apprentices helping?"

"Naomi's hands will fit better," Tiras said in feigned innocence. At Asher's disbelieving scowl, the stable master chuckled. "It's good experience for her... and it will lessen the trouble she gets into for skipping Temple today."  
~`~`~`~  
“What’s got your big ugly nose out of joint?” Isni lounged on the largest of the flat rocks, his loose, desert-shaded clothing blending easily with the stone.

“It pisses me off that they picked up that other train,” Jedrej said as he scanned the caravanserai through his field glasses. His thick fingers swallowed the lens casings, and he fumbled with the focus wheel. The camp below wavered through the glass, then swam into sharp focus.

“I don’t see how it makes any difference,” Isni shrugged as he casually rolled off the rock and stretched for his entire length before sitting up on his knees beside Jedrej. “They can’t outrun us, after all.”

“It increases our chances of being seen.” Jedrej lowered the binoculars to scowl at the long-limbed blond man. “And you almost blew our cover when we crossed the border, asshole.”

The blond chuckled and stretched his arms over his head. “I couldn’t help it. I was hungry.”

“We were too close to the caravan for that. You could’ve waited until dark.”

“If you weren’t so goddamned slow, I would have.” The blond’s lip curled. “We’ve nearly lost them three times because of you.” He rubbed his stomach. “I’m still hungry.” He leaned forward and grinned down at the busy caravanserai. “What a delicious banquet.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jedrej said. “We have orders to follow. You can go catch lizards to fill your bottomless stomach. I’m not going to make Her mad.”

The blond’s eyes narrowed as he continued to watch the caravans make camp under the setting sun, then his hand darted out and he snatched the field glasses from Jedrej.

“What the fu--” Jedrej protested before the strap snapped across his throat.

The blond grinned wider and he nearly purred. “The plan’s just changed,” he said. He handed the glasses back to Jedrej and pointed.

Jedrej adjusted the field glasses again and swept them over the camp. The travelers had lowered their hoods, and two people from the Bharati caravan didn’t belong. Unlike the brown-skinned and dark-haired rest of the train, the man and boy were paler, though not as pale as Isni’s northern-bred skin, and both the travelers had gleaming gold hair. “A couple of travelers. So what?”

“Look closely. The kid’ll be worth a fortune,” the blond said.

“We don’t have time for side trips,” Jedrej snapped.

“Kidnapping the brat would be within the scope of our orders,” Isni countered. “And we’d get a bonus for the trouble.”

“Just how does kidnapping a boy from a caravan fit into the job?” Jedrej demanded.

“Your eyesight’s getting worse every day,” Isni said insolently. “If you could see past your nose without those,” he waved at the field glasses, “you’d know that that boy alone could make not just our fortunes but Hers as well.”

“And just where do you think we can keep him while we carry out the rest of our orders?” Jedrej asked.

“The caves,” interjected the third member of their group.

Jedrej turned to look over his shoulder at the hooded man sitting calmly beside their packs. He pointed off to the distance, and Jedrej brought his field glasses up.

At the edge of his weak eyesight he could see the purple shadow of a mountain range. “The Uryia cliffs? There aren’t any caves in those mountains.”

“The mozhkarishki know where they are.” The man’s voice offered no hint as to his opinion of the matter.

“So who’s gonna drag the kid all the way out there? It’ll take all three of us just to get rid of the caravan guards.”

“A day or two won’t make a difference in our plans, and the nomads who live there will watch the boy.”

“I ain’t trusting a bunch of Ishbalans,” Isni growled. “Not with something as valuable as that brat.”

The third man threw back his hood, revealing dark-brown skin and silver hair. His red eyes glittered. “They have no love for the Amestrians,” he said, “and even less love for the traitors who have sided with them.” His lips quirked. “Do you truly not know who the varisti who travels with the Bharati is, Gozenyi?” His tone made the honorific a mocking insult.

“Just some Amestrian.” Jedrej grunted. “We have more important things to do than screw around with ransom notes.”

“The kid’s worth a pound of gold each to us,” Isni said.

The Ishbalan huffed. “Idiots.”

A muscle in Jedrej’s jaw twitched and his big hands clenched on the field-glasses. “So who is he?”

The Ishbalan didn’t answer for a long time. He just watched the camp.

Jedrej brought his glasses back up, and watched the boy and his father working together erecting their tent. Neither of them looked the least bit interesting, or valuable. “Is he some high official?” Jedrej considered a moment. “They’re not dressed like they’re rich. If we kill the father and take the boy, how will we get our pound of gold each?”

“The father won’t be easy to kill,” the Ishbalan said, then a grin slowly crawled across his face. “But I can do it.”

“So... who is he?” Jedrej asked again.

“A legend,” the Ishbalan said. His eyes darted to the far side of the camp, and his face went tight. He hissed. “I knew that stench was familiar.”

The blond’s stomach grumbled loudly and he chuckled. “Horse sounds tasty.”

“The horse and his rider are mine,” the Ishbalan growled.

“Will the two of you stop thinking with your stomachs?” Jedrej barked.

“This has nothing to do with food,” the Ishbalan said curtly. His narrowed red eyes tracked the copper-coated horse as he followed his master. The Ishbalan’s lip curled into a feral snarl.  
~`~`~`~  
Jesu scrubbed frantically at the stains on his robe, but all he seemed to be doing was spreading them.

A shadow filled the doorway of the wash-shed, and Jesu’s heart sank. He slowly turned his gaze upward, and tears stung his eyes. Papa’s expression was curious at first, then his eyes went to the blood-stained robe, and his face went tight. He grasped the robe, then settled to his knees next to his son. Papa took his chin, the bandage bunching across his palm, and lifted Jesu’s face, turning it this way and that. “Where are you hurt?” he demanded.

“I--I’m not, Papa.” Jesu couldn’t meet his father’s gaze, as he murmured, “It’s not mine.”

Papa sighed out a relieved breath, then settled back on his heels. He let go of Jesu’s chin, in favor of resting a hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder. “What happened?” Papa’s rumble was softened, and Jesu started to cry.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I... I skipped Temple today.”

“I know that, ’yirhi,” Papa said gently. “That doesn’t tell me why your robe is covered in blood. Were you fighting?”

Jesu shook his head. “I was in the ruins. I saw some other kids... they were Kadrhym tribe. Ewan was with them, and he made fun of a little girl, and she ran off.” He didn’t meet his father’s eyes. “She went right into that big palace you’ve said is going to fall down someday and crush anybody who’s under it. I didn’t want her to get crushed, so I followed her to tell her to go be mad somewhere else...” he faltered.

Papa’s face tensed. “Is this her blood?”

“No!” Jesu looked up to his father’s face. “I’d never hurt a little girl. I’d never hurt--” he stopped and bit his lip.

“You wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Papa finished. “That shows a certain wisdom, my son. A good man, strong and wise, knows that the first strike is usually thrown by the loser.” He crouched to look up into Jesu’s face. “I do want to know whose blood this is.”

“Kenbi.” Jesu sniffled. “A stray came up and attacked the girl-- she had her dog with her, and he ran in to grab the stray dog before it could bite her.” He sniffled again, staring down at his hands. “I used my sling to chase the mean dog away, and... and I carried her dog-- she said his name is Kenbi-- to Doctor Alphonse.”

“Was she injured?”

Jesu shook his head. Papa just looked at him for a long moment, then he let out a whuff tinged with amusement. “You started the day doing something that shamed both you and me, but you ended it doing what makes me proud to call you my son.”

Papa stood and reached for a bar of soap on the shelf over Jesu’s head, then he sat next to the boy on the wash-shed floor with his legs crossed. “Let’s get these stains out before your mother sees them.” He picked a deeply stained place on the front of the tunic, and rubbed the soap into it. “Do a small part at a time, and from both sides of the fabric, to take the blood from each side. Don’t rinse it immediately. Let the soap have some time to work.” He put the fabric into Jesu’s hands. “Work on it while I clean my belt.” He took the jar of leather soap from the shelf and removed his belt, unthreading it from the scabbard straps and laying his sword aside.

“Zephan has told me that you’re having trouble with some of your exercises.” Papa worked the soap into the leather of his belt with strong hands. “He said you are doing well in all your other studies, and you show promise in your training, but you hesitate when you spar with either bare hands or a weapon.”

Jesu sighed, and stared down at his hands scrubbing more soap into his stained tunic. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Why do you apologize, ’yirhi?” Papa’s big, soap-scented hand settled on top of Jesu’s head, and his fingers combed through his hair. “If the training was easy, we’d have more yevarshedaht than horse masters, or metal workers, or farmers. A city cannot run on warriors alone.”

“But...” Jesu hesitated. “I’m supposed to be like you.”

“Jesu.” Papa’s voice forced Jesu to look up at him again. “Even if it was possible, or God’s will, I would not want you or your brothers to walk the paths I’ve walked.” For a moment he was a stranger, a stern patriarch looking at Jesu from behind a layer of so-familiar pale scarring with ancient and terrible eyes. Then he closed his eyes and turned his face away, and when he opened them he was Papa again, rubbing the strong oily soap into his belt. “You must follow the path that is best for you, ’yirhi.” There was a tightness in Papa’s face that Jesu didn’t understand. “Your mother and I will discuss you skipping Temple tonight.”

While Papa concentrated on cleaning his belt, Jesu worked on the stains in his robe. Every now and then he'd roll his eyes to his father's strong hands, watching as tendon and muscle moved and flexed under his tough skin. Papa's big hands had built the family altar in the small grove of fruit trees in the back of the garden, setting heavy stone upon stone. He taught his ungwaiyar how to snap enemy bones with bare hands, but Jesu could remember Papa cradling Zhevah just after she was born -- his baby sister had been almost small enough to fit in just one of Papa’s palms. To Jesu, those hands could do anything, but today the left was wrapped up in bandaging, and Papa was favoring it. Jesu had heard gossip about what happened down south. The rumors... he didn’t want the rumors to be true. Papa hadn’t said anything about his injury or what really happened.

The oily leather soap soaked into the bandage wrapped around Papa's hand, and the snug wrapping loosened. Papa wriggled his fingers and unwound the bandage, exposing a deep gash in his palm that had begun to bleed a little. It looked deep and painful and scary.

"Papa?" Jesu said, voice wavering. "What happened at Saza's Temple?"

Papa gazed at him for a long moment, his face set and his jaw tight. He took a deep breath, sighed it out slowly, then relaxed a little. He gazed down at his palm and said, "Remember what I said about the first strike being thrown by the loser." He turned his eyes to Jesu. "A wise man will not just deflect the blow aimed at him." Papa held up his palm so Jesu could see the wound. "He'll remember that flesh will give before steel."

Papa rose, and ruffled Jesu's hair with his uninjured right hand. "I'll tell your mother about your robe, so she won't get upset. Behave for Kezhiya tonight."

"Yes, Papa."

Papa paused before he left the wash-shed. "'Yhiri" When Jesu glanced up, Papa smiled a little. "You're growing into a good man. I am proud to have a son such as you."

Jesu stared at the space where Papa had stood, wondering about the sadness in his eyes.  
~`~`~`~  
“That was Nizhyim,” Ysa said as she closed the bedroom door with a soft click. “At least we know where our wayward daughter is, now.”

“Did you have any doubt?” Mishyael said. He slid his sash between his fingers to unfold it, then draped it over his shoulder. “But why was Nizhyim sent to tell us?”

Ysa reached up and smoothed his sash over his chest. “She’s helping with the birth of a foal.” She reached around his waist and worked the stray folds and crinkles out, then expertly tied the sash in the complex knot of a yevarshedaht. “He said she’s going to be there for awhile.”

Mishyael laid his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and sighed. “I’ll pack her dinner and take it to her.”

“You’ll be late.”

“That might be a blessing, nayinha.”

"You could always claim illness," Ysa teased.

"And have to explain myself to Elder Shan tomorrow morning? I think this dinner will be less painful."

Ysa snickered. "One of these days you're going to have to tell me why that tiny old woman makes you tremble."

Mishyael hmpfed and gazed down at his left hand, wriggling the fingers stiffly.

Ysa took his hand, and lightly kissed the fingertips. She gazed up at him, concern knitting her brow. "When are you going to see Mei about this?"

"Soon. I promise, nayinha."

Ysa arched a brow. "Don't give me that, Beloved." She sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist. "You did nothing wrong. Stop punishing yourself."

Mishyael held her close, rubbing her back. "I'm supposed to set an example for our children."

Ysa leaned back to gaze into his eyes. "And you set a fine one, Misha. You kept anyone from being killed."

Mishyael fingered the shell at the end of his wife’s braid, but his gaze was somewhere far away. "What's gone wrong?" he asked softly. "Two of our children skipped Temple, and the twins-- I would have thought them old enough to show better judgment."

Ysa snuggled against her husband's chest. "They're growing up, Beloved. They're at the age of asking questions." She paused and gazed into his eyes for a long moment. "Naomi asked me if I knew what happened to your face last night."

Mishyael stiffened. "What did you tell her?"

"That it's your story to tell. She'll find out sooner or later. My guess would be sooner. Better that she hears it from you."

"Better that she doesn't hear it at all," he answered gruffly. "Better to look forward to the future."

"If you don't look back now and then you might not see the lion stalking you until it's too late." Ysa sighed. "They're growing up. They have to know."

"Not yet," he said softly, as his arms tightened around his wife. "Not yet."  
~`~`~`~  
Alphonse leaned on the stall gate, chin resting on his arms, watching the newborn foal nurse. Naomi sat on a pile of saddle blankets in the tack room across the aisle, her head leaning on her friend Asher's shoulder, sound asleep. She’d worked with all of her strength at an awkward angle to get the foal’s head and legs into position, then taken Alphonse’s instructions without question while trying to get the baby to take her first breath. Tiras had mostly carried the girl to the stable wash rack, then given her a shirt and trousers that didn’t fit but were at least clean. Her hair was all but loose, tied in a simple ponytail at the back of her neck with a strip of rawhide lacing. Asher looked up at Alphonse, gave him a small smile, then shifted his arm and helped Naomi lay her head on his thigh. The mare was eating and calm, and both mother and baby were in fine health. It was the kind of scene that made the veterinarian's work worthwhile.

Tiras turned from watching the mare to look at the exhausted girl, and smiled fondly before turning back to watch the spindly-legged foal nurse.

"She'll make a good apprentice, sir," Alphonse said softly.

Tiras smiled warmly, his expression going soft again. "She would... if she chose to be one."

Alphonse's brows pulled down. "You don't think she will?"

Tiras whuffed softly. "She thinks that's what she wants, but her soul will lead her elsewhere. She's curious, and soon Xerxes will be too small for her." Tiras leaned on the gate and jutted his chin at the foal. "She'll have a good horse to take her where she wants to go, though."

Alphonse straightened and stared at Tiras. "You’re going to give her that horse?"

The horse master snorted. "No. She will work for the filly. But she helped with the birth and didn't back away from the challenge or faint. She gave the little one her first breath, and soon she will give her a name." He gazed at Alphonse, his lips quirked in a crooked smile. "She's already claimed the foal as hers, even if she hasn't said so aloud. I know she will take excellent care of her, and bring back new wisdom for this old city. I will grant her one of her dreams to encourage her to go and fulfill the others."

Alphonse huffed softly and smiled. "Equivalency plus one.”

"You indulge my daughter too much, Tiras," came a deep basso voice from behind them.

Alphonse and Tiras turned toward the speaker. "I have no daughter of my own to spoil, Mishyael," Tiras said lightly.

Mishyael held up a tied cloth package. "Nizhyim came to me before the sun went down, but when Naomi didn't return home for dinner, I thought to bring it to her."

"You should be proud of her," Alphonse said. "The foal would have died and I would have had a hard time saving the mother without her."

"Naomi is devoted to horses. Sometimes to a fault.” Mishyael said. A tinge of paternal fondness took the censure out of the words. “I expect I’ll have to drag her to Temple after she makes the Crossing.”

"She will be serving God working here, Senior,” Tiras spoke up. “Your girl didn't carry water or fetch rags." He nodded in her direction. "Her hands are small and strong. She turned the foal’s head and helped bring her into the world."

“Then she did the prayers of gratitude for a healthy birth,” Asher added from the tack room. “She said them right, too.”

Mishyael's eyes widened, then his glance darted to Asher, who grinned at him from ear to ear. The Senior’s gaze settled on Naomi, and his expression softened.

Alphonse Elric had once seen a full-maned lion settle down among a litter of cubs and allow them to pounce on his tail and wrestle with his massive paws. He’d sat transfixed on his nervous horse until Mei insisted they reach the city before sunset. Watching the stern senior yevarshedaht get his tattooed arms under his drowsy daughter and boost her to her feet with a low rumble not unlike that lion’s soft grunts held Alphonse the same way. He didn’t dare twitch lest he break the spell. He watched father and daughter leave the stable, with one of those legendary arms on the girl’s shoulders and one of her strong young hands on the yevarshedaht’s belt.

Tiras moved, and Alphonse startled. The veterinarian looked into the stable master’s deep red eyes, and the older man just smiled a little. They’d witnessed something private, and it wasn’t theirs to speak of.  
1914  
They sheltered in a drafty abandoned barn that night. There was no door to pull closed against the impending blizzard. The roof was missing some of its corrugated metal, but at least there'd be ventilation for the campfire, which would be a good one. There was plenty of flammable junk stacked up in the back of the barn to save the band of fugitives from going out and looking through the snowdrifts for fuel.

Everyone went to work making camp. Everyone except the girl. She quietly sat among the packs, just as her benefactor had told her to, silently playing with the shard of a shell.

“I still want to know why she can’t at least help with the firewood,” Yoki grumbled as he and Alphonse did what they could to block and fill the gaps in the walls near their sleeping blankets. “Even a simpleminded child can be of some use, once you’ve beaten the idea of earning her keep into her.”

“She doesn’t understand,” Alphonse said again. “She’d only hurt herself, and that would slow us down even more.”

“I don’t see why we have to drag her around in the first place,” Yoki groused. “If he’s going to bring a pretty toy along he should at least--” he choked as a hand wrenched his hood from behind and yanked him around.

The Scar of Ishbal glared down at his captive, who writhed and danced around on the balls of his feet to try and take the pressure off his throat. “Mercy, Master,” he gasped.

Scar grunted his disgust and tossed Yoki to the ground, going back to the work of skinning the rabbits he’d tracked and killed on their long march.

The rest of their group turned back to their jobs without comment.

Alphonse Elric transmuted a few boards into a solid wall, then got to his feet and went to get one of the long-rusted shovel heads from the corner full of useless tools. It wasn’t hard to transmute into a steel pan, and Alphonse went out and picked a clean-looking snowdrift. The pan full of snow gave him an excuse to go and crouch near Doctor Marcoh. The former State Alchemist was glumly cutting up vegetables Mei had stolen from someone’s root cellar. Alphonse didn’t like the stealing or the fact that Mei was doing it, but the others had to eat, and it wasn’t safe for any of them to be seen by even an ordinary farmer. He set the pan near the tiny cookfire, and watched the snow crystals melt and collapse for a while.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Marcoh’s voice was soft and matter of fact.

“Pardon?”

“Water. Have you ever studied it?”

“Not much,” Alphonse admitted. “Brother and I have been busy with other things.”

“I spent some time on the crystal forms of snowflakes and ice, years ago.” The doctor lifted his ravaged face to look Alphonse squarely in the eyes. “It gave me new insight into the nature of water. It’s unique on Earth. We can’t survive without it, and yet it will kill us if we don’t remember and respect its power.”

“Oh.” Alphonse turned his gaze back toward the snow melting in the pan. “I guess I’d never really thought about it.” He paused, then lifted his head to watch the tacitly-acknowledged leader of their fugitive band neatly dressing out another rabbit. He worked quickly and with skill, then paused as the girl came up beside him. She put her hand on his arm -- that right arm that killed and destroyed so easily -- and she held up her little sliver of clamshell. Its string had broken, hanging loosely through the small hole in the shell. Scar’s expression softened just a little, and he cleaned his fingers on a rabbit pelt. He took the broken ends of the string and knotted them, then dropped the string around the girl’s neck and delicately lifted her hair out from under it. She picked up her bauble again, turning it this way and that so the mother-of-pearl caught the light of the setting sun.

“I think I understand,” Alphonse murmured. “Water’s always the same thing, whether it’s ice or snow or a river or just a glass of water you drink on a hot day. We just see it in a different form.” He turned to Marcoh again. “And the same thing goes for people.”

The scarred doctor glanced up at Alphonse, and his face twitched into something that might have been a smile under all the ruined skin.


	6. Sazamuz

_ "... _ _ We crossed the river beds all etched in stone _

_ And up the mighty mountains ever known _

_ Beyond the valleys in the searing heat _

_ Until we reached the caravanserai..." _

Edward Elric helped himself to another cup of strong Bharati tea, then settled back against a camel howdah to listen to the drovers sing. Their nightly impromptu concerts had added a merry accompaniment on the long trek home to Xerxes. In the dark at the edge of camp, he could hear the camels growl and the elephants shuffling restlessly. Neither the Bharati watch nor the Aerugan one seemed at all concerned, though. The animals were as anxious to reach their well-watered destination as the humans in the caravan.

He could see a line of twinkling light close to the solid black of the horizon that didn't belong to the jeweled sky; the beacons of the watchtowers of Xerxes. He'd be home by midafternoon, but he doubted he'd sleep tonight. After being gone for six months, he was anticipating returning to his wife and daughter.

He gazed across the Bharati camp fire to the second on the far side of the well. The Aerugans were keeping to themselves, and were, in contrast to the lively Bharati, quite subdued. One of the dark southern men shot a nervous glance back at him as Edward watched.

A small form flopped down against him, and Edward raised his arm to wrap it around his ten year old son. "I thought you were in bed."

"I couldn't sleep," Theo said. The two of them watched the fire dance and listened to the drovers sing for a while, then Theo shifted. "Mom's gonna be mad that we were gone so long, isn't she? It was only supposed to be two months."

Edward glanced down at the youth, who looked so much like him at that age it was disturbing, and grinned. "Nah. We sent her those letters, so she knew we were fine."

Theo scowled, disbelieving.

"Okay, maybe just a little," Edward admitted.

" _ Dad _ ."

Edward sighed, "Yeah. Your mom's probably gonna take my leg and hide it." Theo snickered, and Edward arched a brow. "Don't get cocky, kid. Who do you think is gonna have to help your old man to the bathroom, huh?"

"Ew!"

"Yeah. So work on your Uncle-Al-eyes to keep both of us out of trouble."

Vasupati settled on the blanket near Edward and helped himself to a cup of tea. "You'll make it in time for your daughter's birthday."

Edward grinned. "Thank goodness for that, at least. The gifts we brought should keep Winry from killing me too badly... I hope."

The old caravan master nodded at the elephants tethered outside the circle of firelight. "Are you sure you don't want to buy Bindi for your daughter? Every princess needs an elephant of her own.” The creases in his weathered face deepened with amusement.

“Marissa doesn’t know anything about elephants!” Theo objected.

"No thanks. It costs enough to feed this one," Edward said as he poked his son in the ribs, eliciting a squirming giggle from the boy. "I'm not sure where he gets his appetite."

The drovers started in on a bawdy tune about a princess with a somewhat questionable reputation, and Edward glanced at his son, who was rapt. "Whatever you do, don't sing that song around your mother or sister," he said.

Theo shot his father a knowing glance that was far older than it should have been. "Are you kidding? Mom would kill both of us." He gazed over at Vasupati. “Are we really gonna be home tomorrow?” He almost sounded disappointed, and Edward was positive it came from having to give up Bindi at the end of their trip.

Vasupati leaned over and pointed into the distance. “See the flickering lights on the horizon?” When Theo nodded, the trader added, “Those are the beacons of Xerxes, lit every night to welcome travelers from afar.” He smiled at the boy. “Do you know the story about the Ishvarun hero Saza and his loyal friend Jaio?”

Theo’s face lit up. “Are you gonna tell me another story?”

“Perhaps one more,” Vasupati said. He took a mouthful of tea and began...

_...Now _ _ in those times the hero Saza walked the world alone, and he carried only his bow and his plain sword. He walked from the west to the east and the north to the south, and wherever he went both the lowest and the greatest spoke of him as a wise hero, and that is no common thing. _

_ So Saza walked into a strange country with his bow slung over his shoulder and his plain sword sheathed in plain leather and iron. It was a strange and fearsome place. The trees and the crops and the grass grew into knots like ropes, and the stones bent and curved like flames. _ __ _ But strangest and most fearsome was the thick miasma that lay across all the land. Saza, like all wise men, knew that without the light of the sun and the moon, all things, men and women, beasts and birds and fish, and all the things that grow on the land and in the sea turn as grey as the mist, and slowly waste away... _

...Heinkel walked the inside perimeter of the Amestrian consulate grounds. Every scent was familiar. He hardly needed his nose to find every  _ ungwaiyar _ in and around the compound. The air fairly  _ twanged _ around the young warrior priests-in-training. Fortunately, Ling and his newest wife had already arrived, the Emperor dressed in enough bright-colored silk and jewelry to make it impossible  _ not _ to notice him. Ran Fan was also accounted for -- she’d let Heinkel catch just a glimpse of her as she leaped from wall to tree to roof. Shadow guard courtesy.

Three stories above, Darius was walking the roof with his newest "assistant". The big ape had drawn the short straw, but Diyari's delighted crow had turned Darius' grumble about being a babysitter for the night into a slightly smug expression. Entertaining the kid would make the time pass a little faster. Security was tight, thanks to Mishyael's and Master Abrahn's  _ ungwaiyar _ .

As Heinkel neared the front gate, he caught a tendril of freshly cleaned leather, orange blossom, and warm bread, wrapped around the scents of two familiar people. The gate squeaked as he opened it, and he made a mental note to remind Havoc about oiling it in the morning. There was a barely-there crunch of sand underfoot, and Wahyid, who stood guard outside the gate, reached for the short-sword on his hip. Heinkel laid a hand over the  _ ungwaiyar _ _ 's _ . "It's just the senior and his wife," he said softly.

A moment later, Mishyael and Ysa appeared in the circle of flickering light cast by one of the torches set near the gate. The senior  _ yevarshedaht _ carried a cloth-covered basket filled with fresh-baked rolls. Wahyid shot a quizzical glance at the blond body guard, but didn't ask how he’d known who was approaching.

Mishyael bowed to Wahyid and Heinkel. "How is the watch?" he asked.

"We've got four  _ ungwaiyar _ on the ground, four on the roof." Heinkel gestured up toward the roof. "Darius and his new  _ assistant _ are covering the high ground...” He flashed a grin at Diyari’s mother. “We’ve also got a senior  _ yevarshedaht-- _ ” He took his time to pronounce the mouthful of syllables correctly “--the guy who trained all those guys with swords, and some of the people I work for.” He paused, "And if all else fails, there's always the Emissary."

"Anyone attempting to break through this security net is either insane or suicidal," Wahyid added.

"Remind me to tell you some stories about the Elric brothers one of these days," Heinkel said, amused. A light tattoo of sandals running down the walk toward the front gate caught Heinkel's attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. "Pardon me a moment, Senior." He turned and knelt just as the gate swung open.

Diyari bowed to him. " _ Zhoji _ Darius wanted me to tell you--" He cut off as he noticed his parents, and his face lit up. "Momma! Papa!" He made as if to run to them, then caught himself. He forced himself into a more earnest stance, and bowed. "Excuse me. I'm on  _ duty _ ."

Ysa's face brightened with maternal pride, and the normally stern senior  _ yevarshedaht's _ expression lightened a fraction. Mishyael bowed to his son. "Don't let us keep you from your duties,  _ 'yirhi _ ." He and Ysa stepped around Heinkel, and as they passed the youngster, Mishyael ruffled Diyari’s hair. Heinkel wasn't certain, but he thought he saw the man  _ smile _ . There was no mistaking the way Diyari beamed.

Heinkel carefully schooled his face into a serious, businesslike expression. "What's this message Darius sent you to deliver?"

Diyari bobbed his head, and said, "Emperor Ling's Shadow Guard arrived a few minutes ago." His eyes went wide and his tone took on an air of awe. "One minute we were alone on the roof, and then the next, they were just  _ there _ . And then they disappeared again!"

Heinkel chuckled. "How many?"

"Four,  _ Zhoji _ ."...

**..** _ The old man spoke to Saza in a high reedy voice. “There is a demon’s curse on this land. Many generations ago, a master smith used magic to form Askira da Scaridis, the sword made of the light of the sun and the moon. A sword forged in water and quenched in fire... _

...“But you can’t make anything out of  _ light _ ,” Theo said seriously. He turned to his father. “You couldn’t make a crystal strong enough to be a sword, could you?”

“Probably-- but why would you want to?” Edward Elric shrugged. “Don’t think about it too much, kid, it’s just a fairy tale.”

“All fairy tales have something of the truth in them,” Vasupati said mildly. “The ones with nothing to teach aren’t told by grandfathers to grandsons...”

_**...** _ _ The _ _ crumpled old beggar then told the warrior Saza, “Many years ago, the king of this land died without naming a successor, and his seven children fought so loudly over the kingdom they awoke the demon who guards the gates to the underworld. The demon grew angry, because the noise of men fighting and women screeching disturbed his sleep. So he took Askira da Scaridis, the mighty sword of kings, and shattered it into seven shards. The demon then turned each prince and princess into a monster, and set them as guards, one standing over each shard. The demon placed a curse on the land, that it would be wrapped in fog and plague until a man both strong and wise came to solve the riddle within the riddles and bring the light of the sun and the gleam of the moon back to that land... _

...Makhu reined in Yitamar and peered into the night. He could see a faint glow on the horizon. Behind him, his  _ ungwaiyar _ came to a stop. Lyron came up beside him, and Makhu pointed at the distant glow. "We're about three hours away," he said.

"We could get there sooner if we run the horses," Lyron said.

Makhu shook his head. "No need. This is just a precaution." He grinned at Lyron. "The Old Man gets a little paranoid whenever Edward Elric returns from wherever it is that he wanders off to."

Lyron grinned back. "Well, if the stories I've heard about that one are true, Senior Mishyael has good reason."

The wind shifted, and suddenly the horses' ears twitched and they tossed their heads. Two of them reared and their riders fought to keep them from bolting. Yitamar pawed the sand and Makhu could feel the animal tensing underneath him. The  _ yevarshedaht _ _ 's _ eyes narrowed. "Maybe this time he was right." He dug his heels into his stallion's flanks. The horse squealed and reared, his front hooves tore at the air, but he refused to move. The  _ yevarshedaht _ snapped an order and jerked at the reins. Yitamar came down and shot forward. Behind him, Makhu could hear the other horses fight their riders and squeal, then bunch up and gallop after him...

**..** _ Then _ _ Saza’s soul spoke within him, and he said, 'No. If your soul is that of a man, then you must live as a man, with a man’s hungers and a man’s regrets. I will not kill you.' _

_ The monster who had been a prince was suddenly whole, and he rose up to fill the cave again. 'You have said what no man has said. Had you chosen to try to kill me, you would have followed the others into the place from which none has yet returned. Since you see clearly, you will have what I have guarded, and my service.' The monster knelt and put his face to the _ __ _ stones to the prince of Valenring. _ _ ' _ _ Here is the precious thing you seek.' It opened its mouth, and one of its sharp teeth gleamed and fell out. The monster’s great tongue caught the shard of light and dark and gave it to Saza... _

..."Master Abrahn."

"Ah, Ysa, you look lovely tonight." The master  _ yevarshedaht _ took her offered hands and bowed. He glanced at Mishyael and his lips quirked. "I see you've fixed your husband's hair."

"And I understand you're the reason his hair  _ needed _ fixing," she said, lightly. She leaned in, and spoke softly, "Next time, take the rest of it.” She gazed adoringly up at Mishyael. "Of course, with or without it, he's still the handsomest man in Xerxes."

"I'm wounded," Roy Mustang said, as he approached on his wife's arm. "All this time, I thought  _ I _ was the handsomest man in Xerxes."

Mishyael whuffed. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but this city is considerably more than three or four tents full of women and children nowadays.”

“Yes, and for some reason one of the most beautiful women anywhere decided to hunt  _ you _ down,” Roy answered. “She did in weeks what an army couldn’t do in years.”

“That’s because he didn’t know he was being chased until it was too late,” Ysa said calmly. “He was a little distracted at the time.”

Roy’s face sobered. “Mm. We all were.” He straightened up. “But there will be plenty of time to relive the past when we’re all retired. Right now we have a few countries’ worth of ruffled feathers to smooth.” He lifted an eyebrow at Mishyael. “If you’re in a mood to make my life easier, go loom over the Drachmani ambassador. You can probably scare the little rat out of his pint-sized brain just by looking at him.”

“ _ Roy _ ,” Ysa said reproachfully. “International politics is your job, not ours.”

“What is it you think the Drachman will tell me that he won’t tell you?” Mishyael said quietly.

“I’m not sure,” Roy admitted. “What I do know is that his wife is the brains of that embassy, and she’s susceptible to the bumbling blind man act.”

“That’s not going to work forever, you know,” Riza told him fondly.

“Which is why I’m making the most of it while it lasts.” Roy grinned. “Do you mind, Mishyael?”

“I suppose I can loom, though my wife is the weaver in the family.” The  _ yevarshedaht _ lowered his hand to his wife’s waist.

Roy snorted. “See, it’s that kind of comment that’s absolutely  _ ruined _ your reputation. One of these days you’ll be caught smiling, and you’ll never be seen the same way again.”

“Not that you’ve seen me in years,” Mishyael commented amiably. “Go and find out whether you can still charm old women with gray streaks in your hair, Amestrian pup.”

“Go scare a spineless Drachman halfwit, Ishbalan lunatic,” Roy answered with mock dignity. He sailed off into the party on his wife’s arm.

Ysa turned to her husband. “You enjoyed that.”

“Not half as much as he did.”

She smiled. “You indulged the Amestrian Emissary.” She reached up and stroked the back of his neck. “Times have certainly changed.”

He very gently lifted a stray curl away from her face, watching her eyes slip shut for a moment. “They have changed because we’ve changed them. Now--” he slipped his arm back around her “let’s go see what I can frighten the ambassador into babbling about.”

_..._ The _monster sought to rise from the throne, but she fell on the fine tiles of the floor. 'You are a coward who carries a sword but fears it too much to draw it.'_

_ 'I am a man brought up by men. My father and his father taught me that a man’s honor lives in his own mind and soul, not in the eyes and the words of others.' Saza went to the monster and pulled her to her feet. 'My mother and her mother taught me that a woman’s strength lies not in the weight of the sword but the weight of her words. She will see things in the eyes and hear things in the words of others that all but the wisest of men would not think to guess at.' _

_ The monster became too weak and fragile to stand alone, and too small to reach high to his shoulders, so she took hold of the straps that Saza wore across his body. 'Had you bared your sword and run at me to answer my insults as men do, I would have cut it from you and given you such pain as makes a man beg for the release of death. Since you answered me in words, and chose to lift me up, I am powerless against you. I will give you the shard you seek...' _

...Darius leaned his arms on the waist-high ledge of the roof, and gazed down at the torch-lit inner courtyard of the consulate. Next to him, Diyari mirrored his pose, although the ledge was high enough that the best the boy could do is prop his chin on his arms. The body-guard cast a sideways glance at him, one corner of his mouth turning up. "What do you see?"

Diyari scanned the people in the courtyard for a long moment. " _ Zhoji _ Jean is carrying a tray of drinks around. He's talking to everyone, but he keeps watching  _ Zhoji _ Roy."

"You got a good eye, kid. What else?"

Diyari was quiet as he looked around, and Darius took the moment's silence to make his own observations. The Emissary was working the crowd, flirting shamelessly with the wives of the Caledonian and Drachmani dignitaries. Mishyael and his wife had arrived late, and were now talking to the Bharati Ambassador and her husband. The senior  _ yevarshedaht _ stood close to the Drachman ambassador, dwarfing him. Whenever the Drachman attempted to creep out of Mishyael's shadow, the warrior priest would turn and engage him in the conversation. Darius almost felt sorry for the nervous little man. The Emperor's newest wife stood close to her husband (What number was she? Twelve? Ling still had quite a few clans to choose wives from), as he chatted animatedly with Elders Shan and Hamzhya and Abrahn, the master  _ yevarshedaht _ . Darius huffed a soft laugh. From the pile of food on the plate the Emperor deftly balanced in one hand, his appetite hadn't changed.

Diyari giggled, then pointed out a heavy-set red-headed man with a full beard. He was showing off his ceremonial sabre to Colonel Miles. "Why is that man wearing a skirt?"

"He's the Caledonian Ambassador, kid," Darius said. "And don't ever let him hear you call that a 'skirt'."

" _ Zhoji _ Roy just made that fat lady in the blue dress laugh like Momma does when Papa whispers in her ear." Diyari commented. After a pause, he added, "When he does that, they always make funny noises after we go to bed." He shot a confused glance up at Darius. "Doesn't  _ Jzhallei _ Riza get mad when the Emissary does that?"

Darius choked and stammered, suddenly feeling too warm in the turtleneck he was wearing. "Uh-- well-- um, it's called 'flirting'." Diyari stared blankly at the bodyguard, apparently awaiting more clarification. "It's, uh, somethingyou'llunderstandwhenyougetolder," Darius mumbled.

Diyari rolled his eyes and went back to watching the party.

Darius glanced across the courtyard and saw something shift in the shadows near the  _ ungwaiyar _ posted there. He nudged Diyari, then jutted his chin at the roof across from them. "Take a look. What do you see?"

Diyari's eyes narrowed as he peered into the darkness, then he gasped and grinned. "That's the captain of the Emperor's Shadow Guard!"

Darius and Diyari laughed as the  _ ungwaiyar _ finally noticed Ran Fan next to him, and nearly toppled off the roof in his surprise.

Darius rested a big hand on the boy's shoulder, and jerked his head toward the other side of their perch. "C'mon, kid. It's time to make the rounds and see what we can see on the outside of the consulate."

_**...** _ _ Now _ _ solving seven riddles was no simple task, but there was a final, eighth riddle that had yet to be answered. As Saza led the final monster out of the darkness to join her brothers and sisters, the guardian of the underworld appeared and gathered the seven shards of Askira. 'You have come further than any man before you,' the demon said to Saza. 'You have defeated the seven guardians of Askira, and led them from the darkness which had contaminated their souls. But you have yet to answer the final riddle.' _

_ Saza looked around him at the seven princes and princesses, who were still in their monstrous forms, and saw them hold each other and weep joyful tears at being reunited. It mattered not at all how terrible they appeared on the outside. Then Saza turned to the demon and said, 'The final riddle was never mine to solve.' He nodded to the monsters and smiled. 'They have the answer, now. And it is a simple one, when there are no jeweled crowns or bright clothes blinding the eyes to it.' _

_ With a roar, the demon sank into the earth. The sun broke through the grey miasma and shone upon the monsters who were no longer monsters, but men and women reunited as brothers and sisters. _

_ But the great sword Askira de Scaridis lay still upon the earth in seven pieces... _

**...** "There have been six assaults on Amestrians in Ishvar this past week," Miles said to Shan and Hamzhya. "Ever since violence broke out in Saza's Spires, the attacks have been getting bolder. One Amestrian was nearly killed."

"Did they find who drew first?" Hamzhya wheezed. "The stories from the Pillars are saying the  _ mozhkarishki _ are the cause."

Miles nodded. "Unfortunately, those words are true. The tribal leaders and the  _ yevarzherih _ are refusing to negotiate unless the Prime Minister speaks to them herself. The assaults are a threat."

Roy and Riza Mustang approached. The emissary bowed deeply to both Hamzhya and Lady Shan. He faced Miles. "I couldn't help but overhear. Should I radio Madam Prime Minister and advise her to evacuate our people from the region?"

"I hesitate to say yes, Emissary," Miles responded.

"If you withdraw your people," Shan said, "the tribes will see a weakness, and there will be  _ no _ negotiations then."

"Nonsense," Hamzhya said. "It is better to withdraw before the violence escalates. It shows a strength of soul over a strength of force. The holy lands of Ishvarra and Saza belonged to Ishvarun first. The  _ mozhkarishki _ are merely trying to defend what is rightfully ours."

"The  _ mozhkarishki _ are trying to stir up old cesspits and intimidate the Amestrians into leaving," Shan snapped.

Mishyael joined the group. "They have valid grievances," he added. "But they insist on negotiating on their terms, without exception or accommodation."

"Which only makes it more difficult for us," Riza said. "They won't even send a representative who can speak for them. We can't address grievances that we're not aware of."

"And sending in the Prime Minister herself is out of the question," Roy added. "There is no reasonable way to assure her safety at Mahas."

"Yet sending someone of a lower rank is an insult," Mishyael explained. "The  _ yevarzherih _ is considered equal to your Prime Minister. He won't even speak with any Elder but Zhan Roa, the Master Elder, when we ask to deal with them."

"And where the  _ mozhkarishki _ go, so goes the rest of Ishbal," Roy said. "I would love to find a loophole that will get the negotiations back on track."

Miles stood silent for a long moment, a finger over his lips. "I did receive some intel before I left Ishvar to come here," he said, gazing at Roy. "I'm not entirely convinced of its validity, though there may be some truth in it."

Mustang frowned. "Maybe we should take  _ this _ conversation inside. Come to the parlour..."

… _ But _ _ why was the sword not restored?” the youngest prince asked. “The demon has returned to the earth, the curse is broken.” _

“ _ A child can set a fire in a moment that burns the mightiest of cities,” Saza answered, “but it takes strong men and learned men seasons and years to bury the dead and clear away the destruction before the city can rise again. A demon can bring the monster inside to the outside. It can make the poison of fear and avarice into poisons of the land and air and water. It can break what man has made, but only God and God’s children can make old things new and the broken things whole.” _

“ _ The sword was made by magic,” the middle princess said. “Only the sorcerer smith who forged it could reshape it, and no one has seen him since he made the sword for the first king of this land seven hundreds of years ago.” _

“ _ Once it was that the sword was whole but your family and your kingdom were broken. Now your family and your kingdom are whole but the sword is broken.” Saza spread his cloak on the ground. “I have said I will not take your fine furs or your glittering jewels or even your great horses. Instead, I ask that you give me these broken shards. It may be that I find a man who can make of the pieces a new sword.” _

_ The brothers and sisters were afraid at these words, for Saza was a tall and strong warrior who might easily claim the throne. They consulted with each other, and they said to the prince of Valenring, “We said that you would have any thing that was ours to give as our thanks. So we will give you the broken sword Askira de Scaridis.” _

_ Saza saw that they feared for their thrones and the bloodshed that comes of one man seeking to rule another’s kingdom. He put the shards of the sword of sunlight and moonlight into his cloak, and he said, “It is true that I am a lastborn prince, and in time I may claim a kingdom. But there are lands enough that suffer under cruel and thoughtless kings. I will go to those places and do as God wills me to do. I and my sons and grandsons will take those lands and rule them with wisdom.” _

_ So Saza carried away the broken sword, and he walked away toward the east, following the travelers’ road... _

...Hamzhya settled into one of the leather-bound wing-back chairs near the crackling fireplace with an audible sigh. "It feels good to take the weight off these old bones," he said.

"There were plenty of seats in the courtyard, Elder," Riza said, as she made a complete circuit around the room, then took a spot to the right of her husband's seat. "I doubt anyone would have begrudged you one of them."

"As an Elder, it is my duty to set an example to the young ones--"

"--And his vanity won't allow him to admit that his joints have stiffened," Lady Shan finished, as she took the seat next to Hamzhya.

Mishyael and Miles took positions on either side of the fireplace, with clear views of both the window and the door into the parlour.

"We're safe from eavesdroppers here, Miles," Roy Mustang said. "What is this intel you have for us?"

"As I said before," Miles said, "I cannot vouch for the validity of the information--"

"Stop dancing around it like it's excrement," Shan chided. "Just tell us what you know."

"Charming as ever,  _ Vrua _ ," Roy quipped.

The old woman hmpfed. "I'm too old to waste my breath on empty pleasantries. My time could end at any minute." She faced Miles. "So get to the point."

Miles chuckled softly, then said, "As you wish. The  _ yevarzherih _ may not speak for all of the nomadic tribes. There are rumours of dissent among the younger  _ mozhkarishki _ ..."

_..._ So _the great warrior Saza wrestled with the creeping beggar, and found that the old man with a crooked back and one eye filmed white was strong and tireless as no man can be. “Who are you?” he cried as they struggled._

“ _ My name is broken as my body,” the beggar told him, “and broken is my weapon!” He snatched up two shards of the sword and drove them into Saza’s belly and threw the prince to the earth with his face turned to the sky and the moon fading in the light of the sun as it rose. _

_ Saza lay with his life’s blood spreading into the dirt, and he saw clearly. He spoke in the whisper of a dying man. “To break the thing shaped by a man is to break the man himself.” The night came back for him even as the day began. “You are the smith who made the sword, and it is truly yours. Take it and forgive me for thinking you a thief.” _

_ The crooked smith saw that Saza was wise and honorable, and that he was not yet beyond the reach of men. He took the broken blades from the hero’s body, and he made healing magic so that Saza would not die. He drew a mighty anvil from the earth and made an iron hammer from Saza’s blood and the earth. Then the smith who had been a creeping beggar laid Saza, all unknowing, on the anvil beside the broken sword of moonlight and sunlight. So he cared for the man and he mended the sword on the same bed, and in that place there is still a stone marked red with Saza’s blood and streaked with the white light of the moon and the golden light of the sun. _

_ No one now knows how long it was that Saza lay sleeping beside the sword, but when the sun set some time later, the smith struck the sword Askira de Scaridis one more blow, and as the sound of iron on light rang among the trees the hero Saza opened his eyes. He saw a man, tall and straight and seeming no older in his face than himself. The smith’s hair was the gold of the men of Xerxes, and his right eye was no longer filmed in white but shone with the silver light of the moon. He held the sword of sun and moon, whole and straight, in his right hand and his iron hammer in the left. _

_ Saza jumped to his feet and took his plain iron sword in his hands in the way of the men of his land, but he found his body weak and trembling against the weight. “I have no desire to fight,” he told the stranger he saw. _

“ _ Nor have I,” the smith answered. “Sit down and take some food with me, warrior, before you fall and I must spend more days tending your wounds.” _

_ Saza put his sword into its plain sheath, and without the blade before his eyes he saw that the golden man was indeed the creeping beggar. “You are whole, as the sword is whole, and you have mended my body as you mended the sword. It would please me to call you my friend.” _

“ _ So it would please me to be named your friend,” the smith answered. “My name is broken forever, but there are men who say ‘Jaioada’ for ‘friend of mine’. So I will be your Jaio, and go with you for as long as you call me Jaio.” _

_ And that is how the warrior Saza met his friend Jaio, and won the sword Askira de Scaridis, for after that Saza carried the sword of light and Jaio fought with his great iron hammer. They traveled the world and left many stories behind them, but those are for another night... _

“...For the moon is high in the sky, and it will soon be dawn,” Vasupati finished. He took another mouthful of tea.

Edward chuckled. “Okay, Theo, time for bed.”

The boy whined a protest, but Edward shook his head. “We’ve gotta get up early tomorrow, and Bindi won’t listen to you if you’re tired and cranky.”

Theo groaned, but got up and trudged toward their shared tent.

Edward smiled and shook his head. “Kid’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide, sometimes.”

Vasupati chuckled. “That stubbornness will be tempered as he grows older.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Edward said, ruefully. “I haven’t outgrown mine. At least that’s what Winry keeps telling me.” He gazed across the fire at the Aerugans and saw one of them make another hand-sign to ward off evil. He nodded at them, "So what's with them?"

Vasupati gazed at the other traders. "It's not unusual for Aerugan trains to join ours. There is safety in numbers. But the Aerugan traders are a very superstitious lot. Their stories say this road is traveled by the souls of the dead." Vasupati faced Edward and huffed a small laugh. "They believe that the caravan is cursed because you are in it. But they'd invited us to join them before they saw you and your boy, and now they don't dare offend you by asking us to leave."

Edward's brows shot up. "They think I’m a  _ curse _ ?"

"The people who once populated this desert were all golden, and to them you're a restless spirit. It's a bad omen."

Edward snorted, got to his feet, and grabbed the tea pot. "Well then, let’s show them some ghostly hospitality," he said. He and Vasupati crossed the wide circle of the camp, toward the Aerugans.

As they approached, several of the black-robed traders tensed, and some hands twitched in presumably magical signs while others went to short swords and guns. The captain of the Aerugan caravan came forward. He had disposed of his robes in favor of a leather vest and breeches. He calmly crossed his arms over his chest and bowed, then uttered a formal greeting in his native tongue. “ _Bakea gau usiki.”_

“ _ Baski _ _ guski, _ ” Edward mirrored the bow but mangled the greeting, and shrugged apologetically when he straightened.

"I speak Amestrian, traveler," the Aerugan said, "but your attempt shows respect. I am Sango." He snapped an abrupt order to the rest of the dark-skinned men and they reluctantly holstered their weapons. "Forgive them," Sango said as he faced Edward once more. "There are many stories about the golden men of this desert."

"So I've heard," Edward said, then held up the pot of tea. Sango flashed a grin and nodded, then waved at the blanket on the ground. As the three men sat, Edward took a quick assessment of the other traders who kept their distance. They were no longer fingering their weapons, but they could hardly be considered relaxed. "I'm Edward Elric." He nodded at the Bharati trader, "Vasupati is leading us home."

"Vasupati is well known to us," Sango said as he snapped his fingers over his head. One of the Aerugan drovers produced three cups from somewhere, then quickly put a safe distance between himself and Edward. Sango offered the cups to Edward, who poured tea in each of them, passing them out to the Aerugan, then Vasupati, and lastly to himself.

Sango watched Edward expectantly, then Vasupati chuckled, leaned toward him and spoke softly, "Sango won't drink until you do. Aerugan custom is the one who offers the drink, drinks first, to prove there is no poison."

Edward’s cheeks heated and he gave the Aerugan a sheepish grin. "Ah. Sorry." He took a sip of his tea, then held his cup out in a friendly gesture.

The Aerugan grinned again, his teeth shining in the firelight, then tasted his tea. He nodded and set his cup on the blanket. "Aerugan tea cannot compare to the perfume of Bharat's." He pulled a silver flask from the inside of his vest, unscrewed the cap, and poured a generous dollop in each cup. "But, Aerugan brandy improves even the best." With that, he screwed the cap closed and returned the flask to its hiding place. He took a sip of his tea, then gestured for Edward to do the same.

Edward took a swig and coughed. Vasupati slapped him in the back, and Sango laughed heartily.

Edward wiped his eyes and sniffled, then choked, "Smooth."

Sango laughed again. "If this doesn't prove to my men that you're not a demon spirit, nothing will." He bowed his head. "I must apologize for my earlier reaction. I didn't think any of the Golden Ones still lived."

"Uh, I'm not actually  _ from _ Xerxes," Edward said, cautiously. "We moved to the city about eight years ago, because my wife wanted to set up her automail business there."

"I see," Sango said. "Then perhaps it was a long-ago ancestor who gifted you with those eyes."

"Perhaps," Edward said, then took a sip of his tea.

**~`~`~`~**

"'Dissent'?" Roy said. "In what way?"

"Some of the tribes have fractured and reformed under new leaders." Miles said.

"This could work in our favor," Roy said. "If we can find a way to meet with the dissenting tribal leaders..."

"That would be more difficult than you might think, Emissary," Mishyael said. "It is impossible to know how many tribes there are under normal circumstances. At best we can make an estimate that would probably be far from reality."

"And if the tribes have fractured," Hamzhya said, "talking to the wrong people could be dangerous."

Roy tilted his head up and came close to meeting Miles' gaze. "How good is your intelligence network? Could you get the word out that we're more than willing to negotiate with the dissenters?"

"Consider it done, Emissary," Miles said. "As soon as I return to Ishvar."

Roy started to answer, then stiffened, his blank eyes tracking toward the ceiling. "Maybe we should change the subject, ladies and gentlemen.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “We have company."

**~`~`~`~**

"Emperor Ling," Ysa said as she approached the silk robed Xingese. She took his offered hand and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Are you going to introduce me to this lovely lady?" she asked, nodding at the delicate Xingese woman standing quietly next to the Emperor.

"Ah, Ysa," Ling said as his hand dropped to the petite woman's waist. "This is my twelfth wife, Xiulan."

The Emperor's wife bowed and greeted her in softly murmured Xingese, and Ysa returned the greeting.

Ysa rested a hand on Ling's shoulder and leaned in to murmur in his ear, "I hear that Izyan missed Temple this morning. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

The Emperor snickered in unimperial glee. "I thought it would be a good lesson for Izyan to spend the day running for me." He turned and took Ysa's hand, then bowed deeply, keeping his loaded plate perfectly level. "If it will ease your worries, I sent one of my vassals to collect his lessons. He's working on them now--" Ling's head jerked up, and his jovial smile disappeared. "Stand back," he snapped as he dropped his plate with a crash of shattering crockery. The Emperor flipped his robes away from the hilt of a sword and shoved his wife behind him with the other hand.

**~`~`~`~**

Heinkel took another turn around the walls of the Amestrian consulate, this time along the outside. He stopped and spoke with each of the  _ ungwaiyar _ , partly to get their reports, and partly to keep them alert. The night was blissfully, and boringly, quiet, and the blond bodyguard almost wished for a pissed-off drunk to come stumbling up, just to give him something to play with.

He returned to the front gate, leaned against the wall next to Wahyid, and crossed his arms. "Anything interesting?"

"Other than a line of ants going by carrying a dead spider?"

Heinkel snorted. The breeze carried the rich odors of the food and people from the consulate courtyard. Wahyid's stomach growled audibly, and Heinkel’s echoed the complaint. The  _ ungwaiyar _ looked sheepish and rubbed his stomach and chest a little. Heinkel grinned at him and said, "There should be a ton of food left--" He broke off as the air direction shifted, and the scent of several unfamiliar people wafted near the edge of his nose. His hackles rose and he instinctively went for his gun.

**~`~`~`~**

A horse ambled up to Sango, and lipped the trader's shoulder. The Aerugan twisted as he reached into another hidden pocket in his vest and pulled out a small treat that he offered to the animal. As the horse chewed, Sango rubbed his nose, and returned his attention to his visitors. "Akilah," he said. "He's more loyal than most humans." In the firelight, the horse's coat gleamed like molten metal.

Vasupati thrummed low. "I thought there weren't any Ishvarun-bred horses left in Aerugo."

Edward glanced from Sango, to Vasupati and back, "Huh?"

"They're rare, to be sure," Sango said, "but the Queen of Zamaradi Parimba has an Ishvarun horse-master who has kept the line pure."

"I don’t get it," Edward said frankly. “The Ishbalans are  _ obsessed _ with their horses. They list them right next to humans in their birth and death records. They wouldn’t let Amestris keep even the mixed-breed ones.”

Sango laughed and patted Akilah on the nose again. "There are some followers of the solitary god among us, and they breed the horses and give a few as liege gifts to the Queens who rule their pastures. Akilah was given to me as a sign of respect for my loyalty and skill."

”There are rumours that they read the minds of their masters." Vasupati nodded at Akilah. "He comes into the tent with you, doesn't he?"

"Of course! I would no more leave him to the cold desert nights than I would a child," Sango said proudly. He smoothed the horse’s white forelock. “And see? It is said that Akilah has been kissed by the Ishvarun god.”

Edward arched a dubious brow, but a scream from across the camp stilled the bewildered remark on his lips. "Theo!" He was running toward his tent before the echo faded.

**~`~`~`~**

A shadow swirled like a wisp of smoke from Darius' windward side. He ducked and jabbed his elbow back, and it sank deep into a soft abdomen with a rush of exhaled air. A whirl of sand-colored robes launched itself at him from one side, then small hands came down on the top of his head. "What the--"

Diyari used the big man and his own momentum to spin a double kick at the desert-robed assailant's face. The would-be attacker staggered back a few steps, dodging the blow. The boy twisted in mid-air and landed on his feet with his back to Darius' in a high-ready stance.

Before the bodyguard could rise from his crouch, another shadow melted out of the darkness in front of him, and he caught a glint of steel. The attacker dodged his kick, but the follow-up punch connected. The dark-robed intruder rolled with the blow, and swept his feet out to take Darius' legs from under him. Before he could regain his feet, a heavy weight hit in him the chest, slamming him back onto the graveled roof. A dagger was pressed against his throat, and he wisely stilled. He couldn’t stop the guttural growl that rose from the darker depths of instinct, but he resisted the urge to bare the ape-fangs starting to press down on human teeth. He raised his hands in surrender. The shadow bounced back with a fistful of the big man's sweater, and jerked him up to sit, then someone yanked his arms behind his back. Diyari squawked, and Darius strained against the hands that bound him. He caught a glimpse of the boy as Diyari was shrouded in darkness, then a blinding light burst nearby, and he couldn't see anything at all.

**~`~`~`~**

Ysa wrapped a protective arm around the Emperor's wife, guiding her to the relative safety of the middle of the courtyard. The Emperor had shed his robes in favor of his loose-fitting underclothes. He stood absolutely still, with a utilitarian curved sword at the ready. Ran Fan, Master Abrahn, and Jean Havoc had created a protective ring, herding the civilians into the center as several small round objects fell to the tiles and rolled to a stop near the perimeter of the courtyard. They sizzled and sparked and Ysa instinctively closed her eyes while covering the eyes of the frightened Xingese princess. Several blinding flashes exploded around her. When the light faded, Ysa blinked and stared around her in confusion.

She turned in place, registering the ring of dark-robed figures circling them -- and the Xingese Shadow Guard around the intruders. The masked Xingese guards had their kunai out, but stayed just out of the reach of the desert-robed intruders. No one moved. She heard someone sob and saw the Drachman Ambassador crumple into a faint. Her frightened stare landed on one kneeling figure-- and the small, wide-eyed form in front of him. Spots clouded her vision around the edges and her pulse roared in her ears. She couldn't breathe. Her stomach rolled. Then adrenaline jolted her, and she lunged forward,  _ " _ _ DIYARI!" _

A strong hand caught her arm, and Jean Havoc's voice cut through the thudding of her heart, "Don't. They won't hurt him if we don't fight."

The intruder angled his dagger at her son's neck, and Ysa felt a scream tear at her throat. Her world wobbled back and forth for a moment, then everything faded into white noise.

**~`~`~`~**

A scream erupted in the courtyard. Riza went for her gun.

Mishyael and Miles started toward the door, then came to a sudden halt and slowly backed up.

A shadowed figure appeared in the doorway of the parlour with a  _ falcata _ at the throat of Wahyid. "That would be foolish." He tossed back his hood, revealing a young, chiseled, brown face, a strip of white hair, and glinting red eyes. Black lines and whorls marked the left side of his neck, up the side of his face and ended on the bare scalp over his ear. "There will be no bloodshed, as long as none of you try to shed ours first." The man searched the faces in the room, then landed on Roy. He grinned, but there was no warmth in his expression. "We've come to negotiate, Emissary."

**~`~`~`~**

Camels and elephants bawled and trumpeted in panic. The watch charged toward the Elric tent, guns and scimitars sparking in the firelight.

Edward whipped the draped flap back and froze. The oil lamp hanging from the center pole of the tent was turned down low and Theo was sitting up in his bed-roll within the glowing circle, staring at the sand-colored cobra weaving back and forth near his feet. Ed swallowed and whispered, "D-don't move." Theo's gaze flicked up at his father, terror clear in his wide gold eyes.

“ _ Ngiha _ ,” Sango’s voice said hoarsely.

Vasupati snapped around to look at the Aerugan.  _ “ _ _ Shadow snake?!" _

Edward waved Sango and Vasupati back without taking his eyes off the swaying cobra, then risked a quick glance at his son. The lantern guttered, and Edward's eyes narrowed just a fraction. He licked his lips, and whispered, "Theo-- when I tell you to move, jump back." His attention returned to the shadowy snake. "And close your eyes." His glance again flicked to Theo, who barely nodded, then back to the cobra.

The flame jumped, turning the shadows at the edge of the weak light sinister.

Edward took a breath, and coiled. "Now."

Theo scrabbled backwards, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. Sand softly hissed over the phantom serpent as it lunged to strike. Edward shot forward, and slammed his left heel into the snake's hood. The cobra dissolved into a pile of pale sand. “Thought so.”

A shadow in the corner melted into a black feline form, coughed threateningly ,  and stalked the space between Edward and his son.

“I’m not impressed,” Edward told the menacing shadow. “But I  _ am _ pissed at you for scaring my kid.”

He heard the click of a hammer, and snapped, "Don't shoot, you idiot!" Edward took a cautious step to the side, never taking his eyes from the shadowy panther. The cat's tail whipped and it snarled, exposing a set of very real-looking fangs.

Edward bared his own canines. "You want a piece of me, kitty?" The panther swayed its head, its eyes glittering and glinting red in the low lamplight. It coughed again. In a human, it might have been a sardonic laugh. Then the cat leaped, jaws agape, and Edward sprang.

A yowl erupted outside, amid startled shouts, panicked animals, and the  _ pop _ _ -pop-pop _ of guns firing. Theo rolled out of the way as his father twisted aside. Edward’s kick slammed the panther hard in the chest as they both fell. A blade stabbed through the back of the tent, then a pair of beefy arms thrust through the ripped fabric and grabbed Theo by an ankle. The boy yelped and kicked with his free foot while the black panther snarled and slashed for the elder Elric, claws extended.

Bone crunched under Theo’s boot even as the flesh of Edward’s left thigh tore under the panther’s claws. The shrieks of injured men rang in the chaos.

“ _ DAD!” _

Edward’s head snapped toward the sound of his son’s terrified cry, and he saw the horror in Theo’s eyes as the boy was dragged out under the torn edge of the tent. Hot breath stung Edward’s eyes, and he threw his right arm up instinctively.

Theo screamed. Edward’s arm burned as he swung his left foot and connected with solid muscle and ribcage. He howled as the shock sent exquisite pain up his injured thigh. The panther rolled with the blow. Edward struggled to his feet, his arm hanging limply at his side. Outside a harsh voice growled something in an unfamiliar language, a strangled scream cut off abruptly, and more shots were fired. The panther's tail whipped as it crouched.

Edward could tune out pain, but he was growing light-headed from blood loss. He spun and went down on his bedroll, digging for the traveler’s pistol he kept under his pillow. His fingers just touched the heavy steel before he heard an equine scream and caught a flash of liquid copper and a hoof driving down  _ too _ _ close _ .

"Shit!" Edward curled up and the panther coiled, leaping at the horse. Akilah danced aside, swinging his barrel around the central tent pole, then reared with the squeal of an enraged stallion. The horse plunged down with both front hooves as Edward rolled under the loose edge of the tent. The panther screamed, and Edward knew the blow had struck home.

He staggered upright and grimaced at the chill night air stealing the warmth from the blood now soaking much of his right shoulder and left thigh. Edward searched the gloom for his son, then heard a snap and shattering glass. He stumbled out of the way in time to avoid Akilah's escape from the collapsing tent. Edward had a moment’s impression of blood darkening the horse’s coat, but his attention was yanked to his right when Theo shrieked,  _ " _ _ DAD!" _

There was a muffled whoosh behind him as the tangled fabric burst into flames, and the panther trapped inside began to panic. The light of the burning tent pushed the shadows back, illuminating Edward’s son pinned in a large man’s arm. The man held a dagger at the boy’s throat, the shadows shifting and curling beyond. Beside Edward, Akilah stood still and twitchingly alert, breathing hard. A cheetah sauntered up and calmly sat beside Theo’s captor, licking the blood that stained its muzzle. The rest of the camp froze. The only sound was the crackle of the fire, the complaining of the camels, and the terrified caterwauling of the trapped panther.

The kidnapper grinned.

Edward smirked.

A thick grey serpent coiled out of the darkness and wrapped around the big man's thick neck, lifting him into the air. An angry squeal snapped high above the chaos, and Bindi shook her catch back and forth. The cheetah hissed and squalled, then launched itself at the elephant, digging teeth and claws into her flank.

Caught in a sleeper hold he couldn't break, the kidnapper dropped Theo and the dagger and clawed at the elephant's trunk. As soon as the boy hit the ground, he skidded and scrabbled to his feet then hit Edward in the stomach like a cannon ball. Father and son went down in a tangle.

Bindi dislodged her feline attacker with a lurch, then slung the weakly struggling kidnapper at him. The cat rolled, spat and tore off into the darkness. Bindi let the unconscious man fall to the ground with a dull thunk.

Sango strode up to the collapsed tent, pumping a rifle, and taking aim at the writhing form underneath. Vasupati and one of his men rolled the unconscious would-be kidnapper onto his face, yanked his arms behind him, and began to tie him up.

"It's all right," Edward murmured to his sobbing son. "It's over, it's over."

The smoking panther exploded out from under the pile of burning fabric, knocking Sango back and causing his shot to go wild. Akilah screamed, and Theo echoed the sound, digging both hands into the remains of Edward’s shirt. He could only cradle his son’s head with his working hand as horse and cat fought. Edward wrapped himself around Theo and barely avoided being trampled. The panther tumbled, but quickly found the footing to leap straight at the horse once more. An arrow whistled out from the darkness, and the big cat jerked sideways in the air as if yanked by an invisible chain. It was dead before it landed by Edward's feet.

Edward looked up into the dark face of the  _ yevarshedaht _ of Xerxes, and said hoarsely, “Took you fucking long enough.” Then the darkness closed over him.

**~`~`~`~**

“I take it you’re one of the  _ mozhkarishki _ .” Roy Mustang steepled his fingers. There was no tension in his body or his voice. “[ _ Be welcome under my roof, traveler. _ ]” His pronunciation of the neutral greeting was carefully correct.

“I seek neither welcome nor shelter here,  _ varisti _ ,” the shaven-headed man answered. He forced Wahyid’s head a little higher with the edge of his finely-honed sword. “I’ve come to offer you something you dare not refuse, and take back something that is rightfully ours in exchange.” There was no mirth in his smile. “That is your way, isn’t it? Something for something, always there is a price.”

“You’re free to reject Amestrian hospitality, of course,” Roy said in measured tones. “But I’d rather not have Wahyid’s blood on my floors.”

“So it begins,” the nomad said. “What will you give for the boy’s throat?”

“Hm.” Roy dropped his head and smiled, then came back up to the nomad’s gaze. “How about your life?”

A hairy arm wrapped around the  _ mozhkarishki’s _ neck from behind, and a guttural voice growled, “You want to let the kid go now."

**~`~`~`~**

Ysa crumpled like a marionette with her strings snipped. She fell to her knees, then the stone courtyard. A strange emptiness settled over her eyes like a film. Jean steadied his gun with his right hand while reaching down with the left to grab the woman’s limp arm and get her fingers out of the way of his tires.

_ " _ _ MOM!" _ Horror exploded across little Diyari's face. The boy screamed, then wrenched his shoulders and kicked out hard, forcing his captor to grab and lift him. Diyari bucked and slammed his head back, connecting with the would-be captor's nose with an audible crunch. The child slipped from his captor's grip in that boneless way only pissed-off little kids could manage. His little face set in an unnervingly cold rage, Diyari spun, kicking the stunned intruder's feet out from under him, then darted past Jean and crashed to his knees in front of Ysa. "Mom!" He wrapped his arms around her neck, and choked back a sob.

The courtyard erupted into a flurry of activity. The Xingese Emperor’s sword flashed, and Ran Fan’s voice shouted orders to the shadow guard in clipped Xingese, and the black-clad figures swept into silent blurs that drove the attackers back toward the buffet tables. Four bruised, battered, and  _ very _ pissed-off  _ ungwaiyar _ and one barely-controlled chimera dropped down from the roof and waded into the brawl. It was over in less than a minute.

Jean Havoc remained beside Diyari and Ysa, his gun out. He watched the downed kidnapper with one eye and Ysa with the other. He sighed out a relieved breath when she gasped and sat up in a rush. Diyari nearly choked the breath out of his mother, babbling in near sobs as Ysa wrapped her arms around her frightened son.

The injured intruder in front of Jean stirred and coughed, then started to sit up. "Ah-ah." Jean pulled the hammer back on his gun. The click froze the cloaked man, and his hands slowly came up. Havoc grinned coldly. "I’d finish you off myself, but I’d rather watch that kid’s father send you to your special place in Hell."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: While this is not a companion piece to "mfelizandy"'s ["Estvarya"](http://mfelizandy.livejournal.com/9030.html), there are some common elements. Mainly the Ishvarun culture and language (and both stories' primary location), but I highly recommend reading it. -- "fractured_chaos"
> 
> And to prove that we seriously need a life: We have an [Ishvaran Glossary](http://whips-n-dozers.livejournal.com/3166.html). With not only the definitions of words used in both stories, but cultural notes, as well. This is an on-going project, and there will be new words and definitions added frequently, so check back often!


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